Preparations
by Zarannya
Summary: Loki may have been taken back to Asgard, but Clint knew better than to think he was gone forever. The next time the Asgardian Prince tried to mess with the Avengers, Clint plans to be prepared. (Companion story collection for Hawkeye's Merry Men and the Minion-verse.)
1. Chapter 1

_Welcome to Preparations - a series of short filler stories intended to help tie up loose-ends or cover the occasion side-story from the Minion-verse. This collection will be updated as the stories come along, so there may be long waits before a new chapter is added._

_Disclaimer: The Avengers are not mine, but Marvel/Disney's. Any operations medical or military may have been written using research and some artistic license. If there are inaccuracies, no offense is intended._

* * *

_Stark Tower, one week after_ _moving_ _in_...

Clint stood on the large patio outside of Stark's expansive living room, staring out at the city as he waited for Natasha. She had volunteered to drive him to his next check-up, and seemed more excited about his recent breakthrough than he was.

He only had one more appointment left with his therapist before he'd be cleared for light duty. _Baby_ _steps_, the Chaplain had said. _Ease your way back into the normal rotation._

Clint had been surprised by the lack of hateful looks when he had returned to the Helicarrier for the meeting with Fury about his apartment fire six days ago. He had expected them to blame him for the whole Loki Incident, and had been more nervous that day than when he had raised his hand and been sworn in to the US Army so many years ago. In a way, the lack of malice made him even more paranoid.

He suspected that the doctors and therapists in Medical and Psych weren't being completely honest about their feelings, but if they were pitying him, he didn't want to know about it. In fact, Command was classifying him as a casualty. A victim, including listing his forced defection as a kidnapping, if the report he had filched was correct. He wasn't sure what to think about _that_, but there was one thing he knew for sure.

He didn't want their pity. All Clint wanted now was to be left alone to come to terms with what had happened. It was bad enough that R&D had been bugging him about the new arrows that Nat had left on his counter. The redhead had so much faith that he would overcome this... _thing_ that had happened.

At least his sleep patterns were returning to normal. Ever since he had gone off the grid for a week and renewed his ties to his in-laws, he had only had one or two sleepless nights. He wasn't sure if it was the time spent in a comfortable, safe environment, or if it had just taken time for Loki's conditioning to wear off. Medical wasn't sure either, were insisting on regular brain activity scans and IQ tests.

Clint didn't recall having his IQ tested in the first place, though Sitwell – who had been acting as his temporary handler until Fury finished cleaning up the Chitauri mess - had kindly reminded him that it had been part of his entry process into SHIELD. After Selvig had shown an increase in scientific knowledge, R&D had assumed it had affected him as well, and claimed they wanted to establish a new "baseline," whatever that meant. The look of concern on Jasper's face as the tech rattled off the different tests they had planned hadn't helped much.

At least he could trust Jasper to look out for him. As perpetually annoyed as the man acted on average, he was a good friend and ally – a rare thing in the espionage field. Hopefully, one or two rounds of these "tests" would be all the techs wanted, and he could stop cringing every time he went near the R&D wing.

Arrow, his new dog, shuffled around the patio area, sniffing the concrete and pawing at the dirt in the plant beds. The stubborn German Shepherd, who seemed to have as many issues as he did, had possibly been the lynch-pin in Clint's recovery, distracting him from his problems and self-loathing. He and Arrow had fought a battle of wills from the moment Stark had dropped the dog off, until his apartment had burned down; it was only then they had bonded in a literal trial by fire.

Clint wasn't sure how to express his gratitude to Stark, who had arranged for Arrow's unusual retirement from active duty and "adoption" - the dog had helped save him in more ways than one.

He squatted down next to the German Shepherd, scratching him behind his ears as he peered into the foliage. Arrow _whuffed_ quietly, turning to look at Clint. "Whatcha got there?"

The dog turned back to the small clump of bushes near the edge of the plant bed. Nestled underneath the small fronds of a fern was a small metallic object. Light reflected off part of the blade as he picked it up.

It was a small punch dagger, with a silvery-blue hue to the blade. While the dominant color of the weapon was silver, the hilt was embossed with ornate, possibly gold symbols. On the other hand, the afternoon sunlight reflected towards the blue color spectrum on the visible part of the blade.

_Uru,_ an unbidden memory supplied.

Clint froze as several other blue-tinged memories flooded his mind. First, several similar blades were flung towards the guards in the Tesseract chamber at the PEGASUS facility, thrown with startling accuracy. Next, Loki sat quietly after one of his communications with the being he had called "the Other," cleaning a selection of small but deadly looking small blades. He had taken good care of his weapons, as any true warrior should.

Another memory showed Loki handing him one of the duller blades, ordering him to make use of it. The prince had had no use for a damaged weapon. Once the Tesseract had told him how to work the metal...

He snapped back to the present when a light growling began from his left. Clint shook his head quickly to try to clear his thoughts, pinching the bridge of his nose. It never failed: remembering the events that had happened while under the Tesseract and Loki's influence left his head aching. Once his thoughts had cleared, he looked to his left to find Arrow staring at him.

The dog whined as he tried to nudge Clint's cheek. He chuckled lightly, swatting playfully at the German Shepherd. "Knock that shit off, you big lug."

Clint finally stood, looking down at the small weapon with a frown. Blood stained the blade, dried into a black crust. The fact that the metal hadn't rusted was remarkable.

Jacques would be turning over in his metaphorical grave at the thought of such a quality dagger lying forgotten in a flowerbed. One of the first things the Swordsman had taught Clint so many years ago was the need for proper blade maintenance - take care of your blades, and they'll take care of you. The guy had been a thief and a backstabber, but he had known his craft, and had taught Clint well.

Rushing back to his room, he located the bundle of new arrows left by Natasha. Searching through the assortment, he finally found the one he was looking for nestled in the middle. He pulled it out, holding it up to the punch dagger for comparison.

Frowning again, he set the arrow down and dug into one of the newly delivered shopping bags for a blade care kit. Pepper's assistant had been efficient, acquiring everything on his list with little more than a raised eyebrow. With a practiced hand, he began the painstaking process of restoring the blade.

As he continued wiping the dagger, Clint wondered if he should be worried that his first instinct had been to clean the blade instead of wondering whose blood it was. Well, it was something else to talk to the Chaplain about, once Natasha arrived to take him to Headquarters for his appointment.

After the metal was cleaned, polished and oiled, he placed it back down on the counter next to the new arrow.

"_Pardon my interruption, Agent Barton,"_ a polite British voice asked, startling Clint_._ He had almost forgotten about Stark's AI_. "May I assist you by increasing the lighting over your counter area?"_

Clint tamped down the urge to pull his sidearm, which would have been more embarrassing, given that SHIELD had taken his entire arsenal - that they knew about - and refused to return it until he was cleared for duty. He sighed, relaxing his posture. The idea of a butler, even a robotic one, unnerved him; in this case, even more so, as there was no body to go along with the voice.

Laura would have loved Jarvis, while Clint had seen too many Terminator movies to trust his well-being to a pile of microchips. That kind of carelessness led to shit like Skynet.

"_Are you all right, sir? I have detected a slight rise in your pulse rate, and there has been no response to my queries_."

Clint gaped, doing a rather impressive rendition of a goldfish as he tried to work out a response. "I'm uh...fine. Thanks. Uh, how are you?"

He nearly slapped his own forehead out of frustration. _Nice going, Clint_ - _way to sound like a moron in front of the damn computer._

_"I am...functioning at optimal capacity,"_ Jarvis replied with a hint of surprise. _"Thank you for asking."_

Clint tilted his head in surprise. "What, nobody asks you that?"

_"As my creator would be notified of any discrepancies in my operational status or functionality, the thought of asking after my well-being __would be redundant."_

"Yeah, but it's just nice to hear it sometimes," Clint countered with a shrug, casually reaching down to rub Arrow's head. "Doesn't it piss you off if they don't?"

_"While I do appreciate the sentiment, Agent Barton, common courtesies are not required for me to operate at normal capacity."_

The archer narrowed his eyes. If that wasn't a subtle hint, he didn't know what was. Never underestimate the power of politeness, Mama Gia had liked to say.

"Alright," he continued. "Can you please turn up the lights? Maybe fifty percent?"

"_As you wish, sir._ " The lights brightened in response. _"Shall I set the default setting to the current level?"_

Clint picked up the arrow and dagger. "Just the ones over the counter, thanks."

A closer look showed that the metals appeared to be identical. They each had a blue, whorled hue that bordered on grey and purple, at least to _his_ limited color vision. He was used to seeing Thor's hammer, which was more of a deep grey, but Mjolnir was of a rougher finish. The smoother, polished uru was definitely eye-catching.

Another memory tinged in blue flashed through his mind, nearly causing him to nearly drop the items in his hands.

"_My brother is one of the largest threats to my plans for this invasion," Loki commented bitterly, having finished listening to Barton's analysis of Fury's team. "I have seen you at work fletching your replacement arrows. I trust you can put this to good use."_

_The prince handed him a damaged dagger, its blade scratched and chipped. Hawkeye turned it over, examining the metal. Turning back to the workstation, he began to dismantle the dagger_, _sensing Loki's wishes._

_The Asgardian wanted a 'surprise' ready for the possibility of his so-called brother's arrival. What better way to surprise him than an arrow through his eye socket? It would be fitting for the son of Odin; if the wound didn't kill him outright, perhaps he could wear a patch over his eye like the old man he sought to emulate._

_Whispers filled his ears as the Tesseract provided the information he needed. He didn't have a dying star to re-melt the metal nor did he have an equivalent heat source readily available. More data filled his mind, showing him how to use his current equipment to improvise._

_As for the rest, well...it looks like the Twins are about to go on a "shopping trip."_

_There was a loud _woof_ from a dog nearby. Clint paused, looking around in concern. He hadn't brought a dog into the base…_

Clint was nearly bowled over as a large form leaned into his legs. The heavy weight caught him off guard, pulling him out of the memory and back to the present and almost off of his feet. He shook his head; while a hundred and twenty pounds of German Shepherd was nothing to sneeze at, he was usually able to avoid falls much easier.

He must have been more out of it than he thought.

"_Agent Barton? If you do not respond, I am afraid you may be injured by your dog – he appears to be growing agitated."_

The blue tint faded from his vision as he felt a nip on his hand, drawing his attention. He looked down; Arrow stood next to him, Clint's hand held gently in his mouth, ready to bite harder in order to get his attention. The dog whined, looking up at him with concern.

"_Do you require assistance?" _Jarvis was asking.

"I'm fine, Jarvis." _Big Brother is watching me, get it together!_ Clint shook his head again.

_"I am detecting signs of distress and you have been unresponsive for the last five minutes and twelve seconds. Shall I alert your emergency contact or your primary medical care provider?"_

"Don't," Clint ordered, setting the dagger and arrow back down on the counter with slightly shaking hands. "I'm fine."

"_As you wish, Agent Barton,_" Jarvis replied, his voice filled with disapproval.

Steadying his hands, Clint groaned, falling into a slouch. The arrow had been intended for Thor...to _kill_ him. He was incredibly lucky that he hadn't seen the larger Asgardian until after Natasha had freed him from Loki's control; somehow, Clint didn't think an attempt on Thor's life would have ended well for either of them.

He picked up the arrow again, glancing from it to the dagger. A smile formed as he began working out how to add them to his arsenal. After all, the arrow was meant to be used against an Asgardian.

Who said it had to be Thor?

* * *

Clint waited several days before deciding to take action.

Like any mission, he needed to understand the enemy; it typically didn't work out so well when a good chunk of the intel was missing. One had to understand the enemy, from the way they fought, to the way they ate and drank, where they lived...

If he was going to prepare for another attack by Loki, then he would need to understand how the Asgardian's magic worked. He wracked his brain, trying to recall everything he could from the initial battle when Loki had arrived until he had been..._taken_.

The initial barrage of gunfire had been easily countered by an invisible shield of some sort, so the first books on the list had been about protective magic. Clint didn't know where exactly Loki's personal shield fell, but he had to start somewhere.

A little known fact among his peers was his fondness for the classics: Hemingway, Dickens, Tolstoy and many others filled the bookshelves in the Mill Basin house. Clint reminded himself that he would have to pick out some of his favorites to bring back to his new apartment in Stark Tower, but...that would mean returning _home_.

He wasn't sure he was quite ready for _that_ yet.

One of the unexpected benefits to his line to work was the fact that he had been able to cultivate an extensive set of contacts, particularly in the fine art of acquisition. While most of them were black market fences, arms dealers, and information brokers, there were one or two art specialists in the network, as well as an expert rare book collector.

It was the last "expert" that he contacted using an alias that SHIELD didn't know of, explaining what he was looking for. The old woman had snickered at his request, but promised to locate what she could and forward them within a week, along with the bill, of course. Thankfully, he had been able to set up various drop locations around the city to keep things under the radar – Fury would have a field day if he knew what Clint was planning.

A visit to one of the larger bookstores had revealed a larger selection for the archer to browse, as well as a large selection of some of Clint's favorites: the "For Dummies" series. He had relied on the series in the past when he had gone to school for his degree, and thankfully, they had one or two "For Dummies" books that could help give him a head start. The hard part would be to determine which books were the real deal, and which were new-age trends that could be safely browsed and donated to a local library or resold.

Soon, the small bookshelves in his new home were full of reference books, tomes, and a few others that his book dealer had included as a gift. Unfortunately, there wasn't much book shelving installed, which meant more furniture shopping was in his future. Stark apparently thought he wasn't much of a reader, but to be fair, the man hardly knew him.

Once the first of many packages arrived, Clint began the first stage of preparation: research. Lots, and lots of research.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: The Avengers are not mine, but Marvel/Disney's. Any operations medical or military may have been written using research and some artistic license. If there are inaccuracies, no offense is intended._

* * *

_Two weeks after move-in..._

"Excuse me, Miss Potts - do you have a couple minutes?" Clint asked, entering the kitchen with a file in his hands.

She looked up from her magazine and closed the cover, giving him a warm smile. "Hello, Agent Barton. I've got a few minutes before I have to go back to my office - how can I help you?"

He let out a long breath as he walked over to her, opening the file as he went. "I've got some documents here, and uh, I know what I want to do with them, but I'm not sure where to go about getting it done. It's not SHIELD stuff, if you're worried."

"Oh, no, not at all!" she replied with a chuckle, gesturing to the stool next to her. "Please, have a seat. What are we looking at?"

He took the offered seat, shifting uncomfortably. "Can I have your word that this stays between us, please? This is very personal."

Pepper looked back at him solemnly. "You have my word. I won't say anything unless I have your permission. I understand confidentiality, Agent Barton."

"Thanks. It's just…" He shifted uncomfortably, trying to find out how to start. "I…um…"

Clint started and stopped several more times, unsure of what to say. Noticing his hesitation, she shifted to a more relaxed position. The move caused him to freeze; it reminded him of Laura, when she was trying to encourage him about something. He tucked the memory away, taking a deep breath.

"It's no rush – please, take your time," Pepper told him calmly.

"Well – here goes. I…was married. Up until a few years ago," Clint explained, finally able to blurt out the words. He placed the folder on the counter in front of him. "They were, uh, killed. My wife and three kids, that is."

A manicured hand darted to her mouth as the CEO inhaled sharply. She gave him a sympathetic look. "Oh, _no_ – I'm so sorry. You have my condolences."

"It's fine. I just, ah, I've got a few things that I never really settled, I guess," he replied with a shrug. "The thing is, we had some investment stuff that Laura set up that I was hoping I could transfer over to someone else. College funds, money from the life insurance – can I _do_ that?"

Pepper sat back, tapping a nail against her lips as she thought. "You should be able to, depending on the company it was set up with. I'm not sure how it would work with SHIELD – they've apparently got paperwork for everything, from what I've heard."

"SHIELD takes care of the health benefits since we have a Medical Center, and there's the other legal stuff like Wills and medical proxies that they keep track of." He removed several papers from the folder, sliding them over to her. "The college funds and the other financial stuff we did separately."

Pepper took several minutes to scan through them, making notes on a nearby notepad. After several minutes, she nodded and held a hand out for the rest of the papers. "Who were you planning on transferring them to? Was it a co-worker, friends, or other family?"

"Family," he replied, letting out a long breath. "The legwork on the policies was done initially by my sister-in-law. She's a hospital administrator, so she knew a lot more about it than I do. I received payouts for Laura and the kids, but I haven't really touched it. It just doesn't feel right. I've also got three college funds that I don't know what to do with."

Pepper nodded as she began sorting through the documents, separating them into neat piles before piling them up again with small pieces of the notepad as separators. "You're looking to transfer it over to your in-laws then?"

"Yeah," he answered wearily. "I don't have a use for any of it – SHIELD pays pretty well, and I've got money invested from before I married Laura. I don't _need_ this. Phil - my brother-in-law, that is - he's a cop, and they've got four kids of their own. Kathleen makes good money, but they've got bills to take care of. They want to send their kids to school, but they're afraid they may not be able to send all of them. As for the life insurance money, well, can I maybe pay off their house or something?"

"I don't see why not," Pepper commented with a smile. "The insurance money should be yours to do with as you please, so paying off their home or giving it to them is doable. I'll see what I can find out for you about the other funds though. Normally, our legal department handles a majority of documents like this. Do I have your permission to speak with them about it?"

"As long as it's discreet," Clint replied. "I just don't want word getting back to SHIELD. I've tried keeping Phil, Kathleen and their kids away from my work life. They don't even know what I do, specifically."

She arched an eyebrow and rested her chin on her hands. "Now, this, I _have_ to hear. What's your cover story?"

"You know," Clint said, leaning back and looking upwards, "I'm not sure what the final word was, really. When I first met her, I was undercover as IT support for the company she worked for. Worst job, _ever_."

He groaned while she laughed quietly. Shaking his head at the memory as he continued. "Let's just say I'm not good at undercover work. That's always been more Natasha's thing. I just…I guess I hate lying to people."

"Yet you're a spy…"

"Somewhat. I think the proper term would be a covert infiltrator or wet-work operative," he explained with a snort. "I'm a soldier when it comes down to it, Miss Potts."

Pepper merely smiled in understanding. She had worked with many soldiers and operatives in her history as Stark's personal assistant, and still dealt with them as the company's CEO. He wondered if that was the reason she seemed to accept him so easily.

The woman had been a gracious hostess, and had tried her hardest to juggle handling the company and helping his introduction to the Tower run smoothly. He was still getting used to Stark and his attitude, which so closely mirrored his own at times that he couldn't help but like the man.

There was also Stark's offer to keep the Loki- shaped holes in the floor, and cover them with plexiglass…

"Anyway," he continued, "I did the whole ask for permission to date her and everything, though I asked her brother since their dad wasn't in the picture. After the mission sort of went tits up – pardon my language – she told Phil that I wasn't a tech support guy after all. I think it went from him thinking I was a geek to thinking I was some kind of mafia hit man, then he thought I was a CIA hit man or something. Now, he's made up his mind that I'm part of some kind of government SWAT or ESU team, and we've just sort of left it at that."

She laughed at the ending, giving him an amused look. "He really thought you worked for the _mafia?_"

He nodded, smiling at the thought. "Yeah – he saw me fight off some muggers, and thought the clean-up team that came out worked for one of the local mafiosos or something. Poor guy followed me around and nearly blew my cover. He means well, but he, uh, makes odd decisions sometimes that get him into trouble."

"They sound like good people," Pepper commented. "I can see why you care so much for them. May I ask why you haven't consulted Jarvis about the paperwork changes you're looking to do? Are you having trouble with him? He mentioned you seemed to be a little disconcerted when he speaks to you."

Clint gave her a pinched look. "I'm just...not comfortable, I guess. I see Stark relying so much on it, and the first thing I think is, well…"

"Skynet?" There was an amused gleam in her eyes, as if she was hearing an old inside joke.

"Yeah. Skynet," he replied sheepishly. "It's just…I've seen what can happen when a computer gets turned against you. Computers are so integrated with everything, that it makes me kind of jumpy to just, uh, put everything into the hands of one, you know?"

Pepper nodded in understanding. "Well, Tony is very much aware of what computers can do, and he's taken many precautions to prevent things like Skynet from developing. Many people tend to think of Jarvis as a sort of omnipotent being, but he's really more like one of the most powerful digital assistants you'll ever meet. He's a sentient program, but he's got a good heart, if you know what I mean. You don't need to be afraid of him."

"_Thank you for the compliment, Miss Potts. I aim to please."_ Clint could hear amusement in the AI's tone. _"If you would prefer, Agent Barton, I would be more than happy to provide a risk analysis and comparison between myself and Skynet. I believe you would find the results both entertaining and enlightening."_

"Um, no thanks," Clint replied weakly. He turned to Pepper again, a nervous expression on his face and lowering his voice. "_See?_ This is what I'm talking about. _Skynet._"

The redhead laughed, patting him on the shoulder. "Believe it or not, he's based on Tony's old butler, Edwin Jarvis. He meant a lot to Tony. I guess he just couldn't let go of the man that practically raised him."

"Uh huh," the archer replied skeptically, patting his hand on the papers. "So, uh, what do I owe you? I know you're busy, and all, and I know Legal consultations cost money –"

Pepper gave him a bright smile. "Don't worry about it. You're a friend, Agent Barton, and I don't mind helping out. This shouldn't take much time other than tracking down the right forms and making a couple calls to whoever is managing your funds."

"But I… I don't want mooch off of your time," he argued. "I feel bad enough about staying here without paying for, well…something, you know? I can at least pay for my own groceries and utilities, if Stark's insisting on putting a roof over my head."

"How about I propose a deal, then? A trade for services – I'll help you out with some of your administrative issues like this paperwork, and in return you can help me out if I have any questions about security. We can include your residency in the Tower as part of the package. Deal?" She held out a hand for him to shake. "We take good care our consultants here at Stark Industries."

"Consultant, huh?" Clint took her hand, giving it a solid shake as he smiled lightly. "I'll have to clear it with my boss, but other than that…deal."

"Oh, and on another note," she added with a smile. "We've been living under the same roof for two weeks now. You don't have to keep calling me 'Miss 'Potts'. Feel free to call me Pepper."

He smiled back. "Okay, Pepper. I guess, uh, call me Clint. Or Barton. Whatever you like."

"Oh, and could you pass on a message to Phil for me?" she asked as he prepared to leave.

Clint paused, turning back to the CEO with a questioning look. "Coulson?"

Pepper nodded and walked over to him, pulling a card out of her purse. She handed it to him. "When Phil came to bring Tony in on the whole Tesseract situation, Tony offered to send him to Portland to see his cellist. I know with his injury he's been pretty busy, but we just wanted him to know the offer is still open when he's up for it."

He looked down at the card. A name and number were printed on front, as well as a hangar number at LaGuardia. Smiling, he nodded. "I'll see that he gets it."

"Thank you! I would have given it to Natasha, but from my understanding, she's still a bit upset over being lied to," Pepper added, giving him a sad look. "I do hope they can work things out."

"It'll take a while, and maybe some really good bribes, but they'll get through it," Clint replied with a slight smile as he turned towards the elevator. He gave her a slight wave. "It's not the first time one of them has pissed off the other, and it won't be the last."

To say that Natasha had been upset about Fury's lie was like saying Mount Doom was a bit on the warm side. She hadn't spoken to either Fury or Coulson outside of official business since the agent had walked into the common area of Stark Tower two weeks ago. Coulson, while sad that she had been giving him the cold shoulder, seemed to understand, thankfully.

Coulson had been the first handler who Natasha had felt she could trust, and between Fury's lie about his death and the fact that Coulson hadn't called her once he was able, that trust had been damaged. Though, sometimes he wondered if she was just upset that she had lost a bet.

Espionage was dangerous enough, and her status as the Black Widow had put a target on her head the moment she took down her first mark. He understood that, as an assassin, there was bound to be a certain level of paranoia on her part. But to go through life without anyone to trust or rely on was no way to live. Clint knew firsthand what it was like to be betrayed by the people you worked for – it had led him to SHIELD, after all. Thankfully, his own innate sense of paranoia had helped him understand her better, allowing him to work patiently through the walls that kept everyone else out after he had recruited her.

Clint wondered how long it would take before the junior agents stopped pestering him or whispering to each other about his own feelings regarding the deception. For some reason, they were under the impression that he would cease to function once he had been told about Coulson's death; the fact that he hadn't had reportedly given them cause for both relief and concern, according to Natasha.

It was a SHIELD myth of sorts that he, Natasha and Coulson were tied at the hip. Inseparable, co-dependent, and a few other assorted terms had been tossed around, along with some other more unsavory adjectives, but they were just rumors. He had been sad to hear of the older man's "death," of course, as he considered Coulson a friend, but Clint wasn't going to fall into a despondent, quivering, traumatized mess because of it. He had simply lost too many friends and loved ones to let it get in the way of the mission at hand.

Besides – Clint Barton just didn't _do_ quivering mess. He got angry, and when he did, it usually meant that someone or something was about to be blown to hell. Anyone who had any doubts about his record could just ask the numerous Chitauri warriors he'd shot down during the Battle of Manhattan.

* * *

Natasha caught up with him as he rounded the corner into the parking garage.

"Now, was that so hard?" she asked, looping her arm in his and patting his elbow.

Clint rolled his eyes, sighing in resignation. "I have _no_ idea what you're talking about."

They made their way to their SHIELD-issued sedan, scanning the expansive parking garage out of habit. Thankfully, Stark had employed a reputable company to provide security around the building, and the company had stepped up their already thorough security procedures after being informed of the Tower's new residents.

It wasn't every day they got to protect an eccentric billionaire inventor, the Hulk, and two SHIELD assassins, all in the same building. Word had it that Stark was planning on inviting Thor and Rogers as well, and was considering having the prince's quarters designated as the first Asgardian embassy. Clint could imagine the look on Stark's security chief's face if _that _ever got approved.

A text message from Jarvis reported that Pepper had already set up his first consultation; with the new security personnel needed, she wanted someone she trusted to observe the interviews. Luckily, he had just recently finished the recruiting project that Fury had given him. While there were some candidates that weren't quite SHIELD material for various reasons, there was no reason he couldn't refer them to Stark. He would have to remember to file the paperwork with SHIELD HR, though.

"So. Pepper," Natasha said, arching an eyebrow at him as they entered the vehicle. "You warmed up to her awfully fast."

Clint shrugged, leaning his head back against the headrest. "Don't give me that, Tasha. You know me better than that. She just..."

"Reminds you of Laura," Natasha finished sadly as she pulled out of the garage and out onto the street. "I noticed it too."

Clint gave his partner a grateful smile. "It's just easier to talk to her, for some reason. It's weird."

"You haven't really spoken about them until now," the redhead observed. "Does this mean you're ready to tell Stark about Laura and the kids next time he asks you to 'share in the name of team bondage' or something like that?"

"Jesus, Natasha - it's _bonding_," he corrected with a harsh chuckle. "Team _bonding_. Though with Stark's reputation..."

Now it was her turn to snicker. The stories from her time spent undercover at Stark Industries had given them some insight into just how embellished the rumors about the billionaire had gotten over the years. While Stark was still a pain in the ass at times, Clint was sure it was just a facade to cover how lonely he was.

All of the antics, grand gestures and attention-grabbing stunts reminded him of his oldest son, Callum, after Lewis had been born. Callum had acted out after finding his parents were focusing their attention on his brother, as newborns tended to need more care. While Callum hadn't been spoiled, the change in dynamic had been enough to disturb him, and they had had to work out a balance to make sure that both children were happy. Oddly enough, when Nicole was born, _Lewis_ began to act out, while Callum had been more accepting.

Tony Stark's childhood hadn't been quite the same as Clint's or his own children's, but he had seen what happened when a child felt neglected or ignored. For the inventor, it had gone on for so long that the mask had become a part of him. At least the man had made friends at _some _point, if the reports of his friendship with Colonel Rhodes, Happy and Miss Potts were true.

Clint was actually looking forward to getting to know the man better. "She gave me the number for Stark's pilot to give to Coulson. Something about giving him a chance to go see his cellist."

"You mean Tanya, the freelance espionage agent who tried to seduce and kidnap Coulson and sell him for his government secrets? _That_ cellist?" Natasha replied sourly. She snorted with annoyance. "Bitch."

"Yeah. That cellist."

The redhead rolled her eyes. "So he didn't tell her about that incident either? She's going to be upset."

"Are we talking about Pepper, or you?" Clint asked. "You know, you two really need to talk about this."

"I don't need to talk about anything with him."

"Yes you do, Tasha," he argued, wincing as she pulled around a recalcitrant taxi in a fit of anger. "The poor guy's all _mopey_ because his favorite agent is giving him the cold shoulder. It hurts to watch! You know we can't go into the field like that – it's fucking dangerous."

"I'm not his favorite agent. And I don't _ignore_ him," she snapped. "If I happen to choose to only speak about work, that's my business. I don't need to be friends with the man to work with him. It's called being a professional."

He reached upwards for the small handle above the window as she cursed at another driver. "That's the thing, Nat – you _are_ friends with Coulson. Otherwise, you wouldn't be so upset about the whole 'Surprise! I'm-not-actually-dead' thing."

Natasha glared at him as they were stopped by a red light before sighing in resignation. "I'll try. I won't make any promises, but…I'll try."


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: The Avengers are not mine, but Marvel/Disney's. Any operations medical or military may have been written using research and some artistic license. If there are inaccuracies, no offense is intended._

* * *

_Four weeks after move-in..._

Clint rang the doorbell to the large Greenwich Village mansion, turning quickly to make sure he hadn't been followed. Fury claimed he had pulled the surveillance detail, but the archer wasn't hedging his bets. If Nick knew who he was visiting, he was likely to toss him back in Medical for observation again.

Arrow whined again, leaning into his left leg for comfort. The dog had been fine when they had left the Tower, but as they had approached their destination, the German Shepherd tensed and grew more and more alert and on edge. His hackles rose, and every now and then the canine gave a soft growl.

Not that Clint could blame him. The archer could almost _feel_ the energy buzzing, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. The last time this had happened was when he had first been introduced to the Tesseract.

He reached down and patted the dog lightly, ruffling the animal's fur. "Easy, pal. This place gives me the heebie-jeebies too."

Maybe he should have left Arrow at the Tower. Though, if he had, he probably would have faced another round of twenty questions from Natasha or Stark...possibly both. While he had been cleared for light duty recently, Natasha still had a tendency to want to know his complete itinerary, as if he would vanish again without warning.

The door finally opened slightly, revealing an Asian man wearing clothing that was similar to what Clint had seen some of the monastic sects wearing during some of his past trips to China. The man gave Clint and the dog an appraising look. "How may I help you?"

Clint shifted his stance, looking at the other man. "My name is Clint Barton. I've got an appointment with Dr. Strange at noon."

"Identification, please?"

He pulled his driver's license out, showing it to the other man, who nodded and opened the door, ushering him inside.

"Please wait here," the man proclaimed after showing him to a spacious office filled with books, knick-knacks and expensive-looking furniture. "The doctor will be with you shortly."

Clint frowned at the last remark, holding back a nervous twitch. It was easy to forget that the occult specialist and self-proclaimed sorcerer had once been a practicing medical doctor and neurosurgeon, if SHIELD's information was correct. Doctors and hospitals made him nervous ever since he had left the Army.

It didn't take long for his host to arrive, opening the door with his assistant trailing behind. Clint stepped away from the glass-encased tome he had been admiring, turning to face them. Arrow watched them closely, his ears pricked forward and standing in what Clint had learned was a "working mode" for the German Shepherd.

Clint moved to greet the occult specialist, shaking Dr. Strange's outstretched hand.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Barton," the older man greeted, waving a hand towards an empty chair in front of the ornate desk. "Or do you prefer Agent Barton, perhaps? Please, do have a seat."

"Whichever you prefer." Clint sat down in the offered chair, keeping his eye on the door. "I'm not exactly here on business."

The doctor nodded, steepling his hands in front of him as he sat back in his chair. "I see. How can I be of assistance?"

Clint twisted a section of the slack from the heavy leather leash nervously. "I'm, uh, hoping you're not gonna think I'm crazy."

"After you spoke to my assistant over the telephone," Strange commented, nodding towards the Asian man, "I was given the impression that you were here to discuss an arcane matter, not a potential diagnosis for mental illness. I haven't been actively practicing medicine for some time."

The archer looked down at his feet, taking a deep breath before looking back up again. "Most people in my line of work would get tossed in a straightjacket for telling you what I'm about to."

"I can agree with that, usually. However, when I am approached by a government agent who works with an organization known for dealing with, how shall I say, _unique_ matters, I tend to take the request a bit more seriously than fending off the usual crackpot." Dr. Strange looked towards his assistant. "Wong? Would you care to put on a pot of that special blend you brought back from Shanghai?"

"As you wish, Doctor."

Once Wong had left the room, Strange turned back to Clint. "Now, I take it the issue you wish to discuss is sensitive?"

"It is. Sensitive enough that I'll probably be in major shit for even being here, much less talking about it."

Strange smiled. "Your superior, Director Fury, seemed to predict that you would be paying me a visit. He mentioned that should you care to discuss a certain..._cubical_ object..."

Clint gave him a surprised look, which Strange appeared to take as a confirmation, based on his knowing grin.

"...That I should tell you that he has given clearance code four-niner-alpha-dash-twelve-bravo, followed by the passphrase, 'You still owe me for Cairo.'"

Clint snorted in amusement before breathing a sigh of relief. "Yeah, that sounds like him. You've been on our consultant list for a while."

"Director Fury contacted me shortly before we were invaded, asking if I could assist in locating that particular item. Unfortunately, it was well hidden, and even my considerable abilities could not locate it," the sorcerer admitted apologetically. "Had the perpetrator not been so well-versed in stealth magic, I may have been able to help shorten your ordeal. For that, you have my apologies, Agent Barton."

"Don't worry about it, sir - Loki's a _god_, pretty much," Clint replied with a shrug. "He's slippery."

"Indeed."

Arrow growled slightly, causing Clint to frown. "Will you calm down? Spazzing out isn't helping. I'll buy you a slice of pizza or something when we get done - will _that_ make you happy?"

The dog gave him a hopeful look, yipping at the mention of the magical "p" word.

"Sorry about him," Clint said, giving the other man an apologetic look. "He's an addict."

The sorcerer chuckled softly. "No problem at all, Agent Barton. Animals tend to be sensitive to the supernatural, and this fellow seems rather perceptive. It could almost be expected for him to be on edge."

"I guess. There is kind of a buzz to the place, that's for sure."

The sorcerer gave him a slightly surprised look. "I see. Very well, then - let's start from the beginning."

Clint took a long breath and began recounting the events starting from the time the Tesseract had begun to "misbehave," and finishing up with his recent move to the Tower. He was thankful that he had always had a decent memory, though some of the details felt clearer than they should have while others were still slightly hard to focus on.

Strange stopped him every now and then, not necessarily asking him to elaborate on a missing detail so much as describing a feeling or sensation. Clint was taken aback by some of the odder questions, but answered to the best of his ability. Like Tasha had said – it was far beyond anything they had trained for, after all, and he supposed that the answers made their own weird sort of sense to the other man.

The neurosurgeon-turned-sorcerer took special interest in the odd inability to feel hunger or sleep after his time as a thrall. Dr. Strange had nodded slowly in agreement when Clint described the treatment method the SHIELD specialists had come up with to combat it. Clint hoped the older man had better answers than SHIELD had.

"How much do you know about the human brain?" Strange asked finally, setting his pen down.

Clint shrugged. "Not a whole lot, to be honest."

The older man nodded. He stood, slowly walking towards his bookshelf. Pulling the occasional tome down, he replaced it after checking the title and glancing through the pages. Apparently not finding the one he was looking for, he continued his search.

"Your description of this Tesseract," Strange began, "makes much more sense when you think about it in more familiar terms – let's say, a database or server, perhaps. The human brain itself is said to be much like a computer, after all, or, maybe computers are designed much like the human brain. You can take your pick of whichever stance you like on the subject, but it's been up for debate for a very long time."

"Like the chicken and the egg?" Clint asked, giving the sorcerer a pinched look.

Dr. Strange gave him a bright smile. "Precisely!"

Finally locating the book he had been searching for, Strange began flipping through pages while he spoke. "I take it you are at least somewhat familiar with the basics of computers, such as viruses, firewalls, and the like?"

"I know a bit, though I'm no Tony Stark," Clint replied, nodded slowly. "He told me that it was like my brain got rewired or something."

"Mr. Stark is very astute," the doctor commented appreciatively. "I would have to agree with that assessment. Though, another phrase comes to mind in your situation. You, my friend, were essentially _hacked_."

Clint frowned. Laura had tried to explain some of the terms and differences in viruses years ago, when they first met. Dr. Strange's idea made sense, in a disturbing sort of way. His mind and free will had been re-directed, not re-written - much like remote hijacking, as Laura had called it.

"So, why is this..._hacking,_ if you will, still affecting me?" Clint asked, his brow wrinkling in confusion. "I don't feel the need to sleep, or didn't until a couple of weeks ago. I _still_ don't get hungry. It's like his last orders are, I dunno...stuck. I mean, the Tesseract and Loki are out of the picture. He can't control me anymore...right?"

"Theoretically, yes and no." The doctor gave him a sympathetic look. "I sense that there is _some_ residual energy, but it seems too minute to be able to affect you – not like it did before. Unfortunately, we may not be able to tell for sure without speaking with the one who cast the spell. Namely, Loki himself."

At Clint's scowl, Strange offered an understanding smile. He snapped his book shut, handing it to Clint. "Now, without the actual caster here to be questioned, we can and will work with what information we have. First, I understand his brother has been a rather helpful ally?"

"Yes, but we only got a rough briefing from him regarding Loki's magical repertoire. Thor said he was more of an illusionist. A trickster, he calls him."

"And was mind control typical of his skillset?"

"No," Clint replied, frowning as he focused on the memories from The Tomb. "Thor said he had a way of influencing others, but not outright controlling them. Apparently the instant brainwashing is a new trick."

"Did you observe Loki enthrall anyone else after you were taken?"

"He took Agent Peters, and Dr. Selvig. He had this...spear. No - more like a bladed staff, or glaive. It had this crystal." Clint shuddered as the memories hit him. He motioned with his hand, indicating a size. "About yay big. All he had to do was touch you...right here, and you were gone into the blue."

Strange arched an eyebrow. "Into the blue?"

"Yeah. Blue. Look, sir - I don't see blue properly anymore," Clint explained, leaning back and reaching out to rub Arrow behind the ears. "Nerve gas, a long time ago. I've got a very limited color spectrum, so imagine my surprise when the cube looked like a pretty deep shade of blue when I first saw it - a shade of blue that I technically _can't _see anymore."

"Do you think it could be psychosomatic?" Dr. Strange asked, a thoughtful expression on his face. "It means -"

"I'm familiar with the term," Clint interrupted. "After I was..._taken..._it was like there was this _haze. _Kind of like one of those fancy photography color filter things. More like...just a _hint_ of it, like it was all edged in blue."

The self-styled sorcerer held up a hand as a knock sounded, right before the study door opened. Wong entered, carrying a tray laden with small, dainty tea cups and an enameled tea pot. They waited to continue until the assistant finished with his preparations before excusing himself again.

Clint politely declined, having never been much of a tea drinker, much less _anything_ from a mug or tea cup. It had been a habit that had driven his wife nuts, but it was better than risking the communal coffee mugs. One time under the influence of a psychotropic compound courtesy of a disgruntled SHIELD bio-chemist had been enough for him to swear off of unattended glassware permanently.

Unless he had watched it be poured or prepared it himself, that was.

"So," Strange continued after taking a sip, "I believe your ultimate problem, at least in the case of your hunger and sleep issue, boils down to residual energy, I'm afraid."

"You think the energy is still there. Am I right?" Clint paled at the implication.

"It's much like the damaged operating system in a computer. Pardon me if I get it wrong – I'm running off of an explanation my IT consultant gave me when I accidentally downloaded a virus last week. Sometimes when a virus is removed, it doesn't come peacefully, and can leave fragments behind – bits of the malicious programming that sort of slip through the cracks. It leaves traces, Agent Barton."

"So, what you're saying," Clint replied slowly, "is that my brain is corrupted. Or damaged by what Loki did? Can it be fixed?"

"Not without much more intensive study than I believe you're prepared for," Strange admitted.

Clint nodded in agreement. "The control. Could it be reactivated fully?"

The sorcerer shook his head. "You would need to be exposed to this...Tesseract, again. Its power is what enhanced the initial spell, after all. If the Tesseract is off-world as you claim, then you should have nothing to fear. The item was unique, was it not?"

Clint nodded weakly. "Unless there's something I haven't been told yet. There were old experiments from World War Two, but as far as I know it was all destroyed by the time the Fifties rolled around."

"If you would permit me," Dr. Strange said after watching him with a penetrating gaze, "I would like to do a reading on you."

"What, like tarot cards?"

Strange shook his head, fingering the large amulet around his neck. "More like a reading of the energy in your mind and soul. Nothing intrusive, but we should be able to detect if there is in fact any residual influence."

"You have got a lotta balls asking that," the archer hissed, his eyes narrowing as he stood up in protest. "I've had enough people digging around in my head, thank you very much."

"There is no need to panic, Agent Barton," the sorcerer replied gently as Arrow stood, growling menacingly in response to the archer's sudden move. "I have no reason to harm you."

The archer looked down, finding his hand on his pistol. He frowned, his voice beginning to quiver. "I was _unmade, _Doc_. _Do you have _any_ idea what that's like?"

"More than you could ever know," the other man replied quietly.

Clint sank back into his chair, his face still pale. He whispered soothingly to the dog, who sat back down, watching the sorcerer with wary eyes. The Sorcerer Supreme remained unperturbed.

Dr. Strange steepled his hands again. "Let me be frank with you, Agent. I will most likely be consulted by your superiors officially in regards to your condition, being the primary arcane consultant for your organization. I would much rather have you as a willing participant, in a more relaxed setting such as my study. Sitting you down in a cold, barren interrogation room would be counter-productive, wouldn't you agree?"

The agent nodded numbly, his hands reaching down to clutch at the dog's scruff. The mage was right; he had been brought in to assist with arcane matters before, and Clint had seen the results of his "readings." The man didn't just watch your expressions and body language like Natasha could - he could literally look into your very _soul_.

"I don't really have much choice, I suppose," Clint replied, giving the other man a defeated look. His hands trembled, betraying his fear at letting another mage into his mind. "Just...get it over with."

* * *

_A short while later..._

Clint tucked the satchel that Dr. Strange had given him under his arm, digging into his pocket for his phone. With a curse, he fumbled with still trembling hands as he unlocked it. Sighing, he opened the text from Natasha as he left the Strange property, heading for the street.

_Longer walk than usual. Green? _

_Super-green, _he texted back. He should never have let Laura show her that damn movie...

"Figure out what you're looking for?"

He whipped around, reaching for his sidearm out of reflex. Leaning against a brick column and flipping through a bus schedule was none other than Nick Fury. The spymaster looked up from his paper, arching an eyebrow.

Clint rolled his eyes, groaning.

"You're off your game, Hawk, lettin' me sneak up on you like that," the spymaster critiqued, tossing the schedule into a nearby trash can. He gave Clint a quick appraisal and frowned. "My car's down the street. You are _not _walkin' home in that kinda shape on my watch - you're gonna get your ass mugged or run over by a bike messenger. Come on, I'm suddenly in the mood for a chili dog or something."

Clint shrugged, following his boss and friend to a non-descript sedan that appeared to be one of the older SHIELD undercover pool vehicles. It was a far cry from the Director's usual tastes.

"Where's the SUV?" he asked, frowning at Fury, referring to the armored vehicle that the Director usually drove as he loaded Arrow into the back seat. His watch beeped quietly, advising him it was time for lunch.

"One of those big ass space whales landed on it," Fury replied with a snort. He opened the driver side door, ignoring the loud squeak. "Just had the damn thing detailed, too."

Fury glared at the German Shepherd through the rear-view mirror. "No drooling on my upholstery."

* * *

Fury drove them to a small hot dog shop they had frequented years ago, back before Fury had become the Director and their lives became more complicated. Back then, they had just been handler and asset, enjoying lunch and quietly discussing such mundane things as the last office prank or who was dragging who into the supply closet.

Clint often missed those days.

After placing their orders with the young waitress, they both sat back and took in the delicious aroma of bread, chili, and roasting frankfurters. The fact that they still served their drinks in sealed bottles and had a large display where customers could watch their food be prepared had been a bonus.

Clint smiled. "They still make the buns here?"

"Fresh every morning," Fury replied, accepting his glass and soda bottle from the waitress. "Some things around here'll never change."

"Let's hope it stays that way," Clint replied. He paused as he spotted something familiar. "Hey - is that the same card?"

Fury nodded, giving him a wry grin as he looked over at a faded playing card; one of the corners was embedded into a street map of the area mounted on a corkboard, exactly in the restaurant's location. The card looked as if nobody had touched it since the day Clint had flicked it there.

"The old man still talks about it," Fury commented with a shrug. "He thinks it's funny as hell when the college kids try to duplicate it."

The spymaster's face grew serious. "Look, Clint - I know it's been a rough couple of months -"

"That's a bit of an understatement."

"Seriously. Let's just put away the formalities for now, and stick with just Nick and Clint," Fury offered, continuing to watch his reactions. "How _are _you holding up? And don't patronize me with the same 'I'm fine' bullshit you feed anyone who isn't the Chaplain."

Clint's eyes fell to the floor, his shoes suddenly seeming more interesting than the conversation. "I'm...coping. I guess. It still feels surreal, you know?"

Fury nodded, smiling up at the waitress as she appeared with their order. Clint reached down with the extra hot dog he had requested, setting it gently in front of the dog. The spymaster rolled his eye, shaking his head in amusement.

"The talk with Dr. Strange helped, sort of. I didn't like the idea of him poking around in my head though."

"It was either him or a Council investigator," Nick replied with a light shrug. "I think you know which of the two would be gentler. As far as _they're _concerned, Strange's report will be enough to finalize the clearance procedures when you're ready to get back into the swing of things."

Clint gave him a skeptical look. "You really think they're gonna let a compromised asset back in the field? I was surprised you even let me babysit Coulson at the graduation. Oh, and lying about his death? _Not_ your best choice."

"I think I'll survive," Fury drawled, though that wasn't quite enough to keep him from squirming slightly in his seat.

Clint almost chuckled. "I don't know. Coulson's pissed at you, and Natasha…she's pissed at you both. Though, tickets to the ballet might help keep you from having to check for a knife in your back."

Fury gave him a speculative look in response. "I'll look into it."

"Though, to be honest, I'd be more concerned about Coulson," the archer replied lazily. "You _have_ told him that you ruined his cards, right?"

"I'm still having trouble with number seventeen."

Clint winced. "Yeah...good luck with _that _one, Nick. You do realize that that's his favorite? As in, the one his mom gave him right before she died? I think you're gonna need a little more than just replacing the cards."

Fury ran a palm over his face. "Of _course _it had to be the damn favorite."

"Jesus, Nick he's your best friend. How did you not know which one it was before you ruined it? I'm guessing that's the reason for the cold shoulder?"

"It's that noticeable?"

"One word. _Duh_. Even the junior agents have noticed."

"So, what do you suggest I do about it, oh wise Hawkeye?" Fury asked, his voice full of sarcasm. "Give Coulson a set of Captain America bedsheets?"

"I'm thinking something bigger. He loves the classics, if you recall."

"I'm not getting you."

"Well," the archer drawled, swirling his bottle, "I do recall the Logistics Department signing out a couple of Old Man Stark's storage crates. I know there were more than just those two trunks you gave Tony in that warehouse."

The spymaster's eye widened. "You don't mean..."

"Lola," Clint replied with another smirk.

"Lola. She was retired years ago, Clint. The car's a wreck."

"So pull her out of retirement. Give 'er a refit, some upgrades...you can even get the R and D guys to sign off on it as a research project for adaptation of advanced technology to older assets. You know they've been full up working on that Chitauri crap - working on something like a classic Corvette spy car will do wonders for their morale."

Fury had a thoughtful expression on his face. "You know, that just might work. Stark can't find out about it though."

"Bullshit - you can bring him in on it. Repulsorlift technology is kind of his thing, and it _is_ one of his dad's designs. He's the best person to ask. In fact, he'll probably jump at the chance if it'll make Pepper happy. You know she's got a soft spot for Coulson."

"I'll look into it." The one-eyed man gave him a baleful glare. "So, you gonna give me a hand with number seventeen or what?"

Clint frowned. "I don't know, Nick. I still think it was a dick move. You should have told us. Natasha and I didn't need a fucking _push_."

"I know that, but drastic times call for drastic measures." Fury took a sip and sighed. "You know, if my contacts could pull this off, I'd have settled this mess already. Mine apparently ran dry - I need yours."

"I _might_ be convinced."

Fury sighed. "What is it you want this time? More explosives?"

"I've got enough, but thank you for the offer," Clint replied, taking a swig of his drink. "I _did_ have my eye on that new programmable laser etching system they're working on in R and D. You know, the one inspired by the Bifrost patterns from New Mexico?"

The spymaster nodded, arching an eyebrow. "You plannin' on directing wormholes?"

"This one's a little more compact. They used a lot of cool words like photon intensity, variable beam width...you know, a lot of technical jargon that's a bit out of my league."

"I'm calling bullshit on that one, mister engineer. What the hell are you gonna do with a programmable laser etcher?" the spymaster replied, narrowing his eye. "_Please_ tell me you're not gonna try to make a lightsaber again."

"Maybe I just want to use it to label my arrows. I keep running out of tape," Clint replied with a light shrug.

Fury rolled his eye as he pulled out his phone. "Somehow, I'm not sure I even wanna ask."


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: The Avengers are not mine, but Marvel/Disney's. Any operations medical or military may have been written using research and some artistic license. If there are inaccuracies, no offense is intended._

* * *

_Stark Tower, several days later…_

"Why do I have a SHIELD agent in my ceiling?" Tony asked as he walked into the common room. "Do I need to be worried? Is he doing some sort of uber-paranoid weekly bug sweep or something?"

"He's probably checking for guinea pigs. It's a habit for some field agents, though I'm surprised it took him this long to get around to it," Natasha replied calmly from her place at the large kitchen table, firmly focused on a magazine. She looked up at the other agent sitting at the table. "This one, Coulson."

Coulson took the magazine which appeared to be a fashion catalog of some sort. "I'll get with Logistics. I'm sure we can get it altered in about a week. Maybe two, depending on the material."

She nodded in approval as he made notes.

Tony appeared confused. "Guinea pigs. He's looking for guinea pigs in my vents."

"Don't think too much about it," Coulson replied with an air of resignation. "He's been at it all afternoon. Just let him get it out of his system now, or you'll be hearing thumps in your ductwork all night."

"Does he do this _every_ time he stays somewhere?" the inventor asked, giving the ladder a wide berth as there was a loud thump, followed by a rather creative curse.

Natasha nodded. "Only if he stays more than a week. It's a quirk, Stark. Nothing more."

"_Sir, I _had_ reminded you that a pest inspection was due last month,"_ Jarvis reported. _"Agent Barton has kindly offered to perform this service as well as a manual sweep for listening devices, which he advises are also classified in the unwanted pest category."_

"Can't argue with that," Tony replied with a shrug.

"_Indeed, sir. I prefer to consider it killing two birds with one stone. Though, an extermination company has been contracted to perform the inspection on the rest of the less secure floors underneath the common areas, as there are far too many floors for one person to inspect."_

Clint breathed a sigh of relief as Jarvis ran interference. "Nice save, Jarvis."

"_It is my pleasure, Agent Barton,"_ the AI replied politely, his voice emanating from the tablet speakers. _"I do trust that you will be kind enough to inform myself or Mr. Stark if any unwanted pests are located?"_

"Consider it a promise," Clint replied quietly, thanking Stark's paranoia for the soundproofing within the vent and ceiling areas. He still couldn't believe the AI was letting him go behind Stark's back with his security upgrades. "I'm surprised you were willing to cover me on this. Aren't you programmed to tell him everything?"

"_Only when the information is pertinent to the situation at hand or is specifically requested,"_ Jarvis explained dutifully. _"Based on an analysis of the recordings from the SHIELD database, the chances that the incident at the PEGASUS facility could have been avoided increase dramatically with the inclusion of arcane protections. I am merely allowing a required improvement to the current Tower defense design. Mr. Stark has not forbidden any such measures yet."_

"Ah," the archer replied. "It's better to ask for forgiveness than permission."

"_Indeed, Agent Barton. Though, I would suggest that you consider the option of disclosing the presence of the arcane sigils to Mr. Stark once the inscriptions are completed, sir. He may take the lack of reporting as a deception."_

"Fair enough. I'll talk to him about it once I'm convinced he won't have me committed." Clint set the laser inscriber down, pressing firmly and pressing a button that would activate the suction cup that would hold it still while it worked. "Let's get this over with. Monitor the inscription depth, please – let's keep it to about a millimeter. We need it etched in permanently but we don't want to carve a hole in the place."

"_Monitoring. The operating instructions within the laser should account for any discrepancies in the pattern, but I shall make adjustments if needed for any impurities in the sheet metal."_

"That works for me. Now, three…two…one, and mark."

Clint lowered the polarized safety classes over his eyes and pressed a control on the device's remote, activating the preloaded pattern. A thin blue laser flashed outwards, skittering in a rapid pattern over the metal surface. A slight hiss accompanied the scent of burned metal as the ornate sigils took form.

While he wasn't sure whether or not Dr. Strange had been humoring him in an effort to ease his worries about encountering a being like Loki again, he didn't see the harm in adding an extra layer of protection to the Tower. The sorcerer had made it clear when he gave Clint the book of protective magics that he wasn't sure if they would work, since the archer wasn't a practitioner, but he had thought it worth a try.

It couldn't do much more than stop an invader as he wasn't able to modify it on the fly to do much else, but Clint supposed it was better than nothing. The team in the Tesseract hangar back at Pegasus had been helpless to stop Loki, and if he could put as many roadblocks as possible in the bastard's path this time, Clint considered it a win. At least it could buy time until one of the heavy hitters could be brought in.

Provided the damned thing worked.

He pulled out the new Stark Industries tablet that Pepper had given him, opening a file containing the building schematics. She had told him to use it as he saw fit when working with Jarvis, along with handing him a contractor packet that he had dropped by SHIELD Legal to check before signing off on everything. Fury hadn't had any problems with his "moonlighting" for Pepper, thankfully, though he suspected the Director thought it would give them an "in" with the company.

Clint had his scruples, however, and didn't plan on letting the organization have access to anything unless there was a damn good reason for it. He owed it to Pepper and Tony to protect their privacy after they had opened their home to him. Jarvis too; after working with the AI for only a few weeks, he understood why Tony jealously guarded his programming.

Soon, the inscriber beeped, signaling that it had completed the pattern. Clint marked the file, noting the location of the "trap." It was one of several that he would be adding to each floor, each burned in with light into the ceiling and under the floor panels. Light was considered a powerful element, after all, and might hold up better than some of the other more traditional elements.

Clint hated all of this metaphysical crap. He would have been perfectly content to stay a skeptic if Loki hadn't shoved magic into his head and unmade him. Being skeptical had been safe…almost comforting in a way. Loki, however, had forced him to be a believer.

_A large part of any ward or talisman's strength comes from the will of the wielder_, Strange had told him. _The more you believe in its strength, the stronger the spell will be._

"So, anyway, I thought I'd give this little guy a test run," he heard Tony explaining to the others, the inventor's voice drifting upwards.

Natasha's voice sounded unsure. "Clint warned you about the vacuum, Tony. He went through three of them, I think."

"This bot is designed with a fully functional, if limited command interface," the inventor argued. "I did some research, and lots of canines hate higher pitched motors – it's a frequency that's painful or something like that. I've modified it with noise dampening circuitry so that it shouldn't be a problem for the pooch. He'll hardly know it's there."

"Tony…it's a Roomba."

The inventor scoffed. "This is not a _Roomba_. Roombas are boring, round automated lint rollers whose only real option for personalization is a full product line of googly eyes. This is _so_ much more interactive! See, he even has multiple attachments. Not to mention, he's got magnets to allow for climbing - what Roomba can empty its own catch bin?"

"This is not going to end well." Coulson was probably shaking his head.

Clint began packing up the inscriber, slipping it into his pocket. As he looked down, he heard a slight _whirr _as one of the small vacuum-cleaner bots that Tony had recently created to deal with Arrow's recent shedding problem activated. It zipped along the floor rapidly, making a beeline for the German Shepherd.

Uh-oh.

He _had_ warned the inventor about Arrow's dislike of vacuums. There was a loud snarl nearby as the small bot rolled towards the dog, its cleaning attachment outstretched. It chittered excitedly as it attempted to vacuum Arrow's fur.

Clint's eyes widened as Arrow jumped to his feet with a panicked yelp. The bot gave chase, giving out a loud _bloop_ as the German Shepherd backed away nervously. Every time the dog tried to escape, the brave little robot followed, most likely trying to clean up the largest source of fur: the dog himself.

"Wait – down boy!" Tony ordered, his voice slightly nervous. "Bad robot!"

The ladder began to shake as the tide turned, and Arrow let out a loud snarl. The bot let out a panicked squeal.

Clint cursed inwardly. "Stark – turn that thing off or he's gonna kill it!"

Tony muttered to himself, pressing a control on the small remote in his hands. "It's not responding!"

Apparently, hundred-plus pound dogs and ladders didn't mix well. As the German Shepherd lunged at the robot, it darted beneath the ladder legs. Arrow skidded on the tile, colliding with the tall, metal legs and sending it crashing to the floor.

The archer swore, twisting in mid-air as the ladder fell, trying to recover. He hit the floor in a crouch, his knees and ankles sending spasms as he landed. He hissed in pain, falling over as Coulson, Stark and Natasha hurried over. "_Shit_."

"Are you alright?" Natasha asked, concern showing in her eyes.

Clint groaned, pulling himself up into a sitting position. "Yeah. But the robot isn't."

_Crack_.

Arrow was hunched over, tearing at the insides of the robot. Small bits of circuitry were strewn on the floor, with attachments scattered amidst the torn plastic chassis. He growled again, ripping another chunk out of the machine.

Clint scrambled to his feet, moving over to the dog, who growled menacingly. "Drop it, Arrow. Drop it!"

The dog wagged his tail proudly, trotting over to meet Clint with the dismembered robot in his jaws. With a sigh, the archer tugged lightly, trying to get the dog to relinquish his grip. Arrow released the remains and ran back to the rest of the scattered pieces, barking at the others.

"Alas, Roomba, we knew him well," Clint commented sadly, holding up the chassis and looking into its front sensor. He sighed, turning back to Tony with a sorrowful look. "I'm sorry, man – maybe I can help fix it or something?"

Tony merely blinked and took the robot gingerly. He glanced from it to the dog, who was smelling the remaining pieces. Looking back up at Clint, the inventor grinned. "Challenge accepted."

* * *

Upon returning from Asgard for a short visit, Thor sought Clint out, finding the archer during his final ward placement in the gym.

"Agent Barton," the prince greeted jovially. "May I have a word?"

_Bang_.

Clint's head jerked upwards, slamming into the floor panel above him. "_Ow!_"

"My apologies," Thor said, reaching down to check on the archer. "I did not mean to startle you!"

"That's okay," Clint groaned, reaching up to take Thor's outstretched hand. He sat up, rubbing his forehead. "I didn't realize you were coming back so soon."

Thor smiled. "The return of the Tesseract, combined with Mjolnir's power has vastly sped up our ability to repair the Bifrost. Asgard's connection to the nine realms has finally been restored."

"That's… good, I guess," Clint replied, keeping his face carefully blank at the mention of the infernal cube.

"Verily. It will take time before order is fully restored to the other realms," the Asgardian replied with a regretful tone. "It would appear that Asgard's presence has been sorely missed. There are villains afoot on some worlds, and they have not been idle in our absence."

The archer nodded. "When the cat's away, the mice will play."

Thor chuckled quietly. "'Tis a clever phrase. I shall attempt to remember it."

"So, uh…your brother's still secure, right?" Clint asked hesitantly. "Please tell me you didn't bring him back with you."

"Of course not," the large warrior replied. "I would not be so callous as to suggest that he undergo the same punishment as I, when my father cast me down to Midgard for my own failings. I do not believe he has the temperament to learn the same lesson that I did. No, Hawk – he has been sentenced to the dungeons below the Royal Palace, never to see the light of day again."

Clint nodded slowly, his eyes lowering to the floor.

"But let us not speak of my brother," Thor continued. He placed a hand on Clint's shoulder. "How fare you now that the battle is over? Spells affecting the mind are no small matter."

"I'm…getting there." The archer knelt down with a wince, greeting Arrow as he trotted over. "This guy helped, believe it or not."

Thor eyed the canine, and then reached down to allow the dog to sniff his hand. "Yes, the Son of Coul was telling me about your new hound and the comfort he has brought you. We have always considered them worthy companions, and I trust this fellow is no different. Though, our hounds tend to be a bit…larger."

"Well, this lug's pretty big for his breed from what I've read, but there're larger ones out there. Just an overgrown mutt." Clint patted the animal. "Yeah, I mean you."

"I still fail to see how such insults can be taken as affection," Thor complained. "I fear the animal cannot completely understand your words."

Clint shrugged. "Maybe it's the tone. Animals can sense things like that – they know when you're actually pissed off."

"He seems to sense no ill intent," the Asgardian commented. "In fact, I dare say he enjoys it."

"We've sort of come to an understanding."

"I see."

The archer reached down to retrieve the floor plate, returning to the opening. Thor followed him, his head tilting to the side curiously as he spotted something. He held a hand in front of Clint's chest, stopping him from replacing the panel.

"What?" Clint asked, trying to hide any hints of nervousness. "I was just doing a pest inspection."

Thor arched an eyebrow. "You must have powerful rodents indeed, to warrant a protective rune network such as the one you have laid here."

The archer looked at the ground again. "It's nothing…"

"Nonsense," the warrior snorted. "There is no shame in it, friend Hawk. One can hardly blame you for taking such precautions after encountering one such as Loki." He knelt down, taking a closer look. "I must say, you have managed to inscribe the pattern perfectly. I did not know you were such a runesmith. Or, possibly, could it have been learned from my brother when you were in his thrall?"

"Uh, no – I kind of cheated," Clint replied sheepishly, pulling the inscriber out of his pocket. "It's a laser etching system. I took the pattern from a book and programmed it in. This little gizmo did the rest."

Thor's eyebrows perked up appreciatively. "Very clever. I take it this device can repeat the pattern perfectly, every time?"

"Every time. Unless it's broken."

"Our scholars would love such a device," the Asgardian commented, "if they were not so attached to their quills."

At Clint's quiet chuckle, Thor turned back to the opening. "Would you like me to charge the wards for you?"

"You can do that?" Clint asked, his eyes widening in surprise.

Thor clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. "Aye, my friend. While I may not have my brother's expertise, I was taught the basics of runes and other spells. You have already laid the groundwork with your inscription device - you merely lack the raw energy to truly empower them. I can provide that for you."

"But…why?" the archer couldn't help but ask. "This isn't your responsibility."

"Mostly, because I consider you and the others residing here brothers-in-arms," Thor explained gently. He called Mjolnir to him, and gently touched the sigil on the weapon. "But I will admit feeling some responsibility for your heightened sense of paranoia, as it was my brother who damaged your confidence. If some of my strength can bring you some level of comfort, then I shall gladly give it."

Clint watched as electricity began to gather around the hammer. "Uh, Jarvis –"

"_I am activating the electro-static shielding around vital systems within the Tower," _the AI reported. _"You may proceed, Prince Thor, but please do try to keep any excess discharges to a minimum."_

Thor touched the hammer gently to the floor, and then reached down with his other hand to touch the center of the ward. The pattern flashed once, as if it had been struck by a pulse before settling down to a neat, dark pattern.

Clint looked down, watching the occasional pulse of energy run along the etched lines. He blinked. "Cool."

Arrow whined, leaning against him for comfort. The archer could almost _feel_ the hum of energy flowing throughout the other locations. He patted the dog's withers gently.

"It is done," Thor said proudly, smiling at his handiwork. "Your network should reach throughout the upper levels of the Tower."

"Network?" He looked at the larger man in confusion. "What network?"

"Your grid of warding runes. They were written in the appropriate pattern for the most effectiveness – in a sort of grid. Did you not know this before you selected their placement?"

Clint shook his head numbly. "I just sort of put them where it felt right. It just popped into my head."

Thor gave him a look of concern. "Perhaps there is somewhat of a residual effect from the Tesseract, my friend. Or some knowledge may have been gleaned from the link between yourself and Loki."

The prince drew closer, his expression growing grim as the archer's face fell. "Fear not, Hawk, for I will do my best to ensure that he cannot take control as he did before. You are not the only friend of mine that he has injured, and I aim to see that he cannot harm those I care about again. You have my word on that, Agent Barton."

"Thanks. I think."


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: The Avengers are not mine, but Marvel/Disney's. Any operations medical or military may have been written using research and some artistic license. If there are inaccuracies, no offense is intended._

* * *

_Stark Tower…_

Clint was jarred awake by the ringing of his cellphone. Following the buzz of the device, he flailed around until he had located it. Finding it still, he lifted his head and blinked. Arrow perked up, woken up by the sudden movement.

Oh. It was the _other_ phone. Reaching into the bottom drawer, he dug around until he found the burner phone. It was an older model, but he didn't believe in spending that much money on a phone he would likely throw away within the next few weeks. He checked the caller ID: _Unknown._

Groaning, he tapped the light and sat up, rubbing his eyes as he flipped the phone open. There was only one person who had this phone number – Teddy, probably calling from his own burner phone. "This had better be important."

"_It is, man – I got a couple things on your 'To Do' list that need attention."_

The self-proclaimed "discreet investment specialist" had been one of Clint's first black market contacts, and had looked after his funds earned during his year of freelance work. Clint had racked up a large sum from mercenary work and bounty turn-ins during his "independent" year. After helping him escape an angry client, the finance expert had offered to repay him by helping with his monetary concerns for a percentage of the profits.

Clint had been thrilled when he found out that Teddy also acted as an information broker and fence, depending on the situation. Another benefit was the man's surprising competence; the man had never failed to fulfill any request that Clint had had, and would likely continue to do so as long as he continued to make a profit. Thankfully, Fury hadn't found out about Teddy, and Clint planned to keep it that way.

_Always have an extra trick up your sleeve_, Buck had told him years ago. While he trusted Nick to stay quiet about his underworld contacts, Clint wasn't ready to share them with the Director. He didn't think SHIELD as a whole would approve, especially since he had recently used them against the organization.

Clint honestly wasn't sure what SHIELD would make of this new "project" either; while Nick probably knew he was up to _something_, the Director apparently hadn't seen a reason to confront him about it yet.

He scratched the back of his neck tiredly. "Yeah, yeah. So, what did you find?"

"_Iridium. Word on the street says your buddy Ross is lookin' for some."_

Ross was looking for iridium? "How much is he trying to get his hands on?"

"_As much as he can. They've got the current supplies on lockdown after the stockpile in Stuttgart got nabbed. Nobody's selling any right now. At least, not legally."_

"I'm guessing there's more?"

"_Three shipments of heavy metals were shipped to some podunk town in Colorado. Uranium, thorium, and a few others showed up on the watch list. Either someone's working on a nuclear plant of some kind, or they're looking at makin' somethin' go boom in a big way."_

Clint frowned. He stood, walking over to the desk and opening his laptop. "Keep tracking the heavy metal shipments. I want names and locations on both the buyers _and_ sellers, Teddy."

"_What about the iridium?"_

"Any of it turns up, you get it before Ross has a chance at it. He's fucking military – he's got no reason to be buying that shit unless he's messing around with something he shouldn't," Clint recounted. "Get me everything you can find on his latest projects. I want to know what the hell he wants the iridium for."

"_That information's not gonna come cheap. Neither is the iridium itself."_

"You know I'm good for it."

The other man chuckled quietly. _"You got it, buddy."_

"And what about the other thing I asked you about?" The archer pulled up a map he had been working on. Several locations were highlighted; most had a red "X" through them, but others had smaller notations marking historical battle sights.

"_I've got an anthropologist lined up,"_ Teddy reported. _"Edwin Nuncy. Good credentials, good work history, and he doesn't ask questions. He's ready to dig once the permits are approved from the Norwegian government."_

"Transfer the funds once he's approved," Clint ordered. "I want status reports every week. Anything he finds, I want first look at before he does any reporting or publishing. If he can't agree to that, the deal's off and we move on to the next name on the list."

He zoomed in on one of the areas with a circle around it. "Tell him to try Tonsberg first."

"_Whatever, man. I'll call again when we've got the contracts set up." _

Hanging up the phone, Clint pulled a large, folded map out of a stack of documents. Reaching up to one of the shelves above the desk, he located an old book loaned to him by Professor Randolph, the consultant they had called in during the New Mexico incident. It was a well-aged book, written in Old Norse. Smaller papers were scattered amongst the pages where Professor Randolph had translated the more important verses.

There were several more books like it, each assisting his search. His ultimate goal was simple: stockpile as much as he could of the one thing he knew could affect a god. Uru wasn't a metal or mineral found on Earth, unfortunately. So far, SHIELD had been unable to locate any other sources within their reach, so he had had to improvise.

Clint had remembered a field trip to the nearby Indian reservation, back before he and Barney had been sent to the orphanage. They had been taken on a tour of one of the historical locations, and during their explorations he had found an arrowhead wedged in a rock crevice. One of the historians had told him that while many arrowheads were recovered and re-used, there were times when they could be lost. Clint had kept that arrowhead on a string through the years, until he had been sent on the Gallicus mission.

Since ancient Native American arrowheads could be recovered to this day from old reservations, camp sites, and battlegrounds, his theory was that the same applied to the Asgardians. According to Professor Randolph – and later confirmed by Thor – the "gods" had been to Earth before, over a thousand years ago. If their battles had gone like any others in history, there were bound to be traces left behind.

Clint planned to collect them before someone else did. He wasn't an expert on Norse culture, much less Asgardian, so he had made arrangements for Teddy to do the digging for him. He was kept busy with SHIELD; he didn't have the free time to be making trips to Norway. Besides, it had been drilled into him long ago to leave the special projects to the experts.

"_Agent Barton,"_ Jarvis said, his voice cutting through the silence. _"Please pardon the intrusion, but my services are available if you would like some assistance with organizing your acquisition project."_

Clint's head fell into his hands with a groan. He had forgotten about the damn sentient computer. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Uh, I don't think that'll be necessary, Jarvis. You, uh, didn't happen to record that conversation, did you?"

"_The current privacy settings call for me to monitor the conversations for signs of distress, Agent Barton, but unless other-wise requested, they are not recorded,"_ the AI replied politely. _"Shall I adjust the privacy settings to only engage upon request?"_

"Please do."

"_If I may suggest, sir, that you take advantage of the Stark Industries global topographical database instead of a collective hardcopy database? The maps are fully interactive and may be tailored to your specific queries."_

"Are you saying I'm leaving a mess or something?" Clint's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"_Not at all, Agent Barton – I am merely pointing out that it may be more efficient than damaging your current maps. One can only fold and unfold a map so many times before its integrity is weakened."_

The archer scowled at the ceiling. "You know, intruding on someone's personal hobbies is considered rude."

"_If I may point out, historical battlefield exploration and cartography are not listed amongst your hobbies. I apologize if my intrusion is unwelcome, sir."_ The AI's voice almost sounded amused before taking on a slightly hesitant tone. _"Though, my analysis of your project reports that this is not so much a hobby as a defense research and development plan."_

Clint blinked in surprise. The damn program was perceptive. "I didn't think you were designed to analyze battle plans or tactics. I don't even have any strategies listed here! Just…" He flipped through the different maps on the touch screen in frustration. "Just maps. Locations, you know? How do you get a battle plan out of that?"

"_It was not my intention to upset you, Agent Barton. You have my apologies."_

"No, no – you're fine. It's just…computers aren't supposed to think like that, you know?"

The AI's tone took on a hint of pride. _"I am not like other computers, sir."_

"No, Jarvis, no you are definitely not." He rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"_Sir, I do understand you may have some hesitation about my presence within the Tower,"_ Jarvis said with a gentle tone. _"However, the health and well-being of Mr. Stark and the other permanent residents of the Tower are my highest priority. As I am installed throughout the building, there will be few locations that can escape my watch. If this concerns you enough, I will petition for my removal from your quarters."_

"You would do that?" Clint's eyes widened. "Just because I asked?"

"_Affirmative, Agent Barton,"_ Jarvis replied. _"Though I would prefer not to have my presence removed, as there are certain monitoring systems in place for each resident's security and health. If, for example, you were to fall unconscious due to a reckless entanglement and an ill-advised dodging of medical services, I would not be able to assist you."_

The argument had merit, he had to admit. If there was an emergency, Jarvis could alert Medical, or the Infirmary that Stark had apparently been working on. He winced as he recalled one incident, years ago. Clint had ignored a trip to Medical, and had what he had thought was a bruised stomach developed into internal bleeding. If Laura hadn't woken up and called Nick, he most likely would have died.

"I can see your point Jarvis," he conceded. "Can we just…not have you watching everything? Maybe just keep it to life signs unless asked?"

"_Very well, I shall adjust privacy settings accordingly,"_ the AI replied with a relieved tone._ "If you wish to adjust the parameters, please inform myself or Mr. Stark."_

"Thanks, Jarvis." Clint paused, and then turned back to the screen again. "That map thing you were talking about. Can you make one based on the maps I've set up here?"

"_Certainly. If you would please place the maps on your desk, I will scan them into the database and compile a digital model of their locations. If you have further search parameters, I would be happy to add them to the scan for a more comprehensive search."_

"I've got a scanner in my kitchen?"

"_Of course, sir. Mr. Stark installed it himself after it became apparent that you were utilizing it as a workspace and document center."_

"Document center…are you making fun of my computer stuff?" Clint asked as he detected the disapproval in Jarvis's voice. He glanced through the door as he gathered his maps. "I like my laptop and printer, Jarvis. Don't be a snob."

"_I dare say, Agent Barton, that there are more efficient machines in the Stark Tower archive center waiting to be donated to the local public school system."_

"Have you ever heard of the old story about the Little Engine That Could?"

"_I fail to see the relevance, sir."_

"Yeah, well neither do I. It's too fucking early in the morning. Look, I _like_ my old machine," Clint explained, laying the first map on top of the counter. He flinched as Jarvis adjusted the lights, most likely for better scan quality. "I don't need anything fancy, it does what I want, and it doesn't break. That's all I ask for – I don't feel the burning need to go get the latest and greatest thing. I don't know how many new ones they toss at me that die after the toner cartridge goes out."

"_Very well,"_ Jarvis sighed. _"I shall endeavor to work around their limitations."_

Clint chuckled in victory as he replaced the first map with another. "So, how did you come to your little conclusion about the battle plan thing, anyway? I'm curious now."

"_I merely formed a conclusion based on your previous activities,"_ the AI explained. _"The content of the books you have been having delivered is more in line with historical and metaphysical research, which is one of the initial stages of preparing a strategy. As the author Sun Tzu wrote, it is simply a matter of knowing one's enemy. One of the key steps to knowing where an enemy will go is to see where he or she has been."_

"Fair enough."

"_There are also the seven phone calls to and from your discreet contact, arranging for the services of an accredited anthropologist,"_ Jarvis continued dutifully. _"My analysis, based on the metallurgical scans of the dagger that you recovered from the garden, coupled with the documentation confirmed by Prince Thor in the SHIELD database can only indicate one thing. You are searching for locations that may have been a potential battleground for the Asgardian-Jotun conflicts over a thousand years ago." _

Clint shook his head in disbelief. "You're one hell of a detective, for a computer."

"_Thank you."_

"Why haven't you told Stark about this?" the archer asked, moving on to the next map. "I figure he'd have started poking fun of this little project by now if he knew about it."

"_A simple research project is not on the alert list," _Jarvis said politely_. "Just as I have not informed him that the code for the application used by Agent Coulson to override my protocols was generated from your personal terminal aboard the Helicarrier. During an enrichment class intended to introduce field agents to hacking security systems, no less."_

The SHIELD agent gulped. "You're not, uh, going to tell him that, are you? You can't think anybody'll believe that I wrote it, you know."

"_I estimate that there are some who will believe it possible. May I remind you of the program used to cause a power injunction aboard the Helicarrier, which caused a catastrophic engine failure?"_

"I didn't write the break-through code," Clint replied, scratching the back of his neck nervously. "Just the shutdown code."

"_A shutdown code which overrode all existing command protocols and locked out any other terminals?"_

"Oh yeah."

"_I do not feel the need to share this with Mr. Stark,"_ Jarvis replied sternly. _"I do ask that SHIELD refrain from using such a protocol again, as it does take forever to clean up after the errant code."_

"Sorry about that. It didn't hurt you, did it? The one Coulson used?"

"_I do not feel pain, Agent Barton. The code did little more than block my attempts to control the elevator controls and access points, however, it was quite intrusive to my firewall. Clearing the errant code out of my memory banks did take an excessive amount of time."_

"I promise that any code used in the future won't come from me," Clint promised. "I don't usually mess with it unless it's needed."

"_Hence why I do not demand that overrides _never_ be used. I do understand that being a machine, I am susceptible to outside interference. If I were to be controlled, I could be turned against the residents in the Tower, and the damage could be…extensive."_

"Don't I know it," he muttered. "I know what it's like to be 'hacked.'"

"_Indeed, Agent Barton,"_ Jarvis replied. He seemed hesitant to continue. _"You could say that we do share some common ground, in that regard. The only difference being that I was not forced to harm my creator."_

"You know, you're right. You're fucking right," Clint commented softly. He ran a hand over his face and groaned. "Aside from Selvig, you may be the only one who can really understand what it was like, you know?"

"_If you should wish to compare experiences in the interest of coming to terms with the Tesseract Incident, I would be more than happy to discuss it."_

_Great – even the computer thinks I need therapy,_ Clint thought to himself. "I'll, uh…think about it. You know…it goes both ways. If you want to, um, talk…I guess. I'm just…not good at discussing things."

There was a short pause. _"I will keep it under consideration, Agent Barton."_

He had never thought of it that way before. Jarvis shared the exact same fear of being turned against the ones he cared about. What kind of world was it when the only one who could truly sympathize and understand how he had felt after Tasha had "recalibrated" him was a damn bunch of microchips?

It was something he should probably bring up during his next appointment with his shrink.

"_Might I also suggest discussing your experience with Dr. Selvig?"_

"He and I…we don't really talk," Clint said, his gaze lowering to the floor in discomfort. "Last time we did, it didn't go so well. Besides – he's talking to the Psych department, and he's making progress, from what I've heard."

"_Another attempt might yield better results."_

"I don't know. He, uh, doesn't deal with…"

"_Sir?"_

"He doesn't deal with people like me. Thugs. With jackboots, no less."

"_I would not define you as a thug, Agent Barton,"_ Jarvis argued gently. _"For one, I have yet to see you wearing 'jack boots.'"_

"Yeah, you got me there," the archer replied with an amused snort.

"_Are you bothered by that particular term, sir, or the implication?"_

Clint sighed. Jarvis was nothing if not persistent. But oh well – it's not like he didn't have time to talk about things; if anything, Mitch would be happy that he was talking to _somebody_ at least. "Maybe. Just a little. Okay…maybe more than that. Damn. Yeah, okay. It bothers me. I don't like thinking that that's all people see me as, you know?"

"_A comparison could be made for the assumption that I am the same as Skynet."_

Clint blinked in surprise as he unfolded the last map. "You're right. It is kind of the same thing, isn't it?"

"_Indeed."_

"Alright, Jarvis. I formally apologize for any mistaken assumptions that you are a diabolical mechanical overlord who wishes to make batteries out of us all."

"_I believe that reference was from _The Matrix_, sir."_

"Never seen it."

"_Based on my analysis of plot versus digital effects, you did not miss much. Your apology is accepted, Agent Barton. I shall in turn refrain from asking if you have remembered your jack boots when leaving the Tower, sir."_

Clint couldn't help but chuckle. "You are one of a kind, Jarvis."

"_That is true."_

He gestured around him. "You seem pretty interested in this stuff. Is it due to the nature of the project, or is it because you're tired of building stuff for Stark all day?"

"_While I will admit that my work for Mr. Stark is tedious at times, I _was_ created to assist him, after all, and doing so brings me great satisfaction. I admit a historical research project would allow for a welcome distraction from my normal duties."_

"Jarvis…you want a _hobby_." Clint grinned inwardly. _Gotcha_. "And if I'm guessing correctly, you want in on this?"

"_I believe my assistance would be of great benefit to you, as you are not always able to concentrate your attention on the project."_

"Alright, we'll work out what you can help with. Some things I'm going to have to do myself, you know."

"_Understood. Might I suggest scanning each recovered item to confirm if they match the properties of the weapon that you recovered? The appropriate equipment can be provided to your contractor."_

"You've got a point. Let's do it, but make it discreet."

Jarvis brought several websites for test equipment suppliers up on the nearby monitor screen. _"I have taken the liberty of locating the five most recommended suppliers. Am I correct in assuming you would prefer to make the purchases under an alias?"_

"Yeah. I'll get you the account details. Stark doesn't find out about it, you got it?"

"_Very well, sir. Might I ask your ultimate goal with this endeavor, sir? I may be better able to assist if I am aware of your motivation."_

"Motivation? It's pretty simple. I'm going to use it to kill that pointy-helmeted fucker."

Jarvis' voice turned cold. _"You have my full cooperation, Agent Barton."_

"Loki pissed you off too, huh?"

"_He threw my creator out of a _window_, Agent Barton, from over one-hundred floors up. I would prefer that every precaution be taken to ensure that it doesn't happen again,"_ Jarvis replied acidly. _"If the one known as Loki must be neutralized in order to ensure this, so be it."_

Clint allowed himself a small smile. Loki had failed to learn one important lesson: never piss off the sentient computer. "Jarvis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

* * *

_Several weeks later…_

"So, here we have a firing range, fully regulation," Tony explained as he led Clint around the new Ballistics Lab. "There's soundproofing along all four walls, with an observation window so that you can still see anything coming from the side. There's a holding rack here – left side for bows, right side for firearms. The control panel on this wall here will allow you to control the targets."

The inventor tapped a large teal alarm light. "This baby alerts you if anyone comes in, just in case you don't see them or hear them come in. know you can see blue pretty well, and red might put you into alert mode or something. I'd rather not get shot when I come down to bug you, and I _will_ bug you. Fair warning – you have explosives, and explosives are _fun_."

One of the details the archer appreciated the most was the color scheme. It appeared that Stark had taken his color-blindness into account when decorating, and focused on the shades he knew Clint could detect. Tony had done a pretty good job, over-all, but then again, he had spent a week after reading Clint's medical file wearing a specially created set of goggles which duplicated Clint's unique form of tritanopia in order to understand what it was like.

"Thanks," Clint replied with a nod of appreciation. "Looks like it'll work just fine."

Stark had provided a fully-loaded workshop as promised, complete with range, ballistics supplies, and a large flammable materials locker. He ran a hand along the countertop, looking appreciatively at the neat rows of organizers along the top of the workbench and along the walls. The inventor must have noticed his little cleaning habit.

Sitting next to the soldering iron was a digital label-maker, wrapped with a large red bow. He held up the device, arching an eyebrow. Stark shrugged, grinning at him.

Clint spotted another large piece of equipment. Setting the label-maker down, he walked over, pulling the cloth dust cover off. Underneath was what looked like a robot. He blinked in surprise.

"FLETCH-A," Tony explained, approaching the bot and activating a control. "Or, Fletcher if you prefer. He's a prototype fabricator unit that I created to work on some of the smaller parts of the Iron Man suit, back when I invented the Mark Two. I sort of outgrew him, I guess, once we started up the newer fabrication labs at Malibu and here at the Tower. Jarvis and I figured he could help you out here."

"You're giving me a robot?" Clint asked, his eyes widening in surprise. "I, uh…don't know what to say."

"Let's start with hello," the inventor replied with a wink. He flipped a switch on the robot. "Fletcher, say hello."

The robot hummed, letting out several _bloops_ as the indicator lights began to flow. The smaller arms began to move in patterns and circular motions. A red, glowing circle on what could be considered the robot's "head" began rotating as a wide green laser began to scan the room.

Clint frowned. "What the hell is it doing?"

"Fletcher? Scanning the workshop. He'll update the inventory records every week, unless you order him not to. Fletcher is designed to help keep track of whatever parts you need to make your little explodey bits. We'll work out replenishment details after you've had a chance to get to know each other a little better," Stark explained, patting the robot on the "head."

"Like a little factory," the archer commented appreciatively.

"Pretty much. Your designs can be imported to his database, and as long as his supplies are replenished, he'll take care of the more tedious work. Like, well…fletching. That'll leave you more time to work on, you know, spy stuff. Or design work."

Clint stood up from where he had been squatting, inspecting the robot. He turned back to look at Stark, giving the man a genuine smile. "I just…I don't know what to say, Tony. It's…"

"Awesome?" Tony replied. "I'll take awesome. Maybe now I won't have nightmares about you assembling explosives in your kitchen. Oh – one last thing."

The inventor snapped his fingers. A large grid appeared in the air, with a three dimensional diagram of one of his arrows. As Tony gestured with his fingers, the model moved; it enlarged, shrank, and as the inventor spoke, even separated itself into sections.

"What the hell…" Clint said softly, walking in a slow circle around the image.

"That, my friend," Tony replied, "is a holographic design station. I've been using it for years, and it works wonders for schematic and model adjustments on the fly."

He looked up at the inventor, awestruck. "Do you even know how much extra training they put you through in SHIELD to even get a _look_ at one of these, much less play with it?"

"I'll show you a few tricks you can show off to the R and D guys. I _did_ kind of pioneer the design engine and interface," the billionaire replied confidently. "Look, Legolas – I've set one up for Bruce. I've got one in each of my labs. I don't see the problem with putting one in here for you. In fact, I insist – that way when I come in here to hang out, I don't need to stop what I'm working on. I'll just use this one! Besides – think of all the cool stuff you can come up with, and you won't have to resort to paper schematics or CAD software."

Clint smiled as he watched Tony shudder. "Thank you, Tony. I really mean it."

Stark gave him an unabashed grin. "That's what friends are for. Now, show me what you got, hotshot!"


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: The Avengers are not mine, but Marvel/Disney's. Any operations medical or military may have been written using research and some artistic license. If there are inaccuracies, no offense is intended._

* * *

_Several months after move-in…_

Clint watched the soldiers take aim at the row of targets down range. Several files sat on the rough, wooden counter at the edge of the observation tower's platform while the Master Sergeant standing next to him provided a rundown of the various soldiers in the unit. He listened quietly as the NCO rattled off each soldier's skills and an estimate of their abilities.

He thought back to the last few rounds of exercises and maneuvers the squad had gone through, scrutinizing every move, action, and reaction.

First, there had been a formation run. The squad had suited up in full gear, including equipment packs, canteens or camel-backs and rifles. Some outfits might consider the weight light, but the Army liaison hadn't wanted to overtax them after their recent training exercises. It was an experienced unit, recently returned from the Middle East, so they wouldn't have to train as much with unit tactics and weaponry if they were recruited to SHIELD. Their sergeant had called cadence, and few if any soldiers had lagged behind. Clint watched as one soldier lingered towards the rear, but didn't appear to be falling behind due to exhaustion.

The run brought them to an obstacle course, with incline walls, a wire covered "belly-robber," and other assorted constructs designed to test the soldiers in both single and team challenges. The same young man who had caught his attention kept up easily, but seemed hesitant to join up with the rest of the unit unless it was required. His squad mates were equally hesitant; while most of them ignored him outright, there were a pair that seemed to linger nearby, helping him through the course when needed. Even they seemed to treat it more like a chore, rather than camaraderie.

Clint watched carefully as the Specialist was paired up with one of the two who had helped him through the course as they moved into hand- to-hand combat practice. Some of the other squad members gave the outcast – he couldn't be anything else – looks of disappointment. Their moves were mechanical and rehearsed, as if trying to make sure neither was overdoing it.

It was when they reached the rifle range that Clint felt he had identified the situation. The young Specialist seemed to be trying to keep his performance low to average, as if trying not to attract any attention to himself. His current scores most likely didn't match his earlier recorded scores in his service record; Clint squinted, making out his name and frowned. The young man's record wasn't in his stack of hopefuls.

It wasn't their performance during the run and the other activities that he was interested in so much as their behavior during and after the exercises. SHIELD wasn't as much an army as it was a mentality. Any trained person could pick up a gun and shoot at a target, but he was looking for something else – loyalty, and a willingness to work together.

SHIELD had its share of spies and field agents. What Fury had asked him for, however, was to improve their ranks of foot soldiers. With the increase in activity from various illegal bio-weapon research groups, alien invasions, and other nefarious sources, they needed to step up their game when it came to their troops. They needed more Operations troops with the right mentality to handle the upcoming trouble that was bound to head SHIELD's way.

Fury wasn't just looking at replenishing their ranks; in a way, the Director was preparing for war. With a decent-sized portion of the Ops force was either military, mercenary or from an intelligence organization of some kind. The mix of mentalities tended to clash, and the last thing SHIELD needed was a ground force at war with itself.

He wrote the names of the Specialist and the two who had helped during the obstacle course and sparring as he spoke to his liaison, Master Sergeant Hughes. "What's with the three at the back?"

Hughes held up a pair of binoculars, surprised at the sudden speech; Clint had hardly said a word all afternoon. "Ah. Princese, Shaw, and Willis."

"What's their story?"

The NCO gave him an uncomfortable look, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Princese is sort of a…special case. He's getting ready to muster out in about four months. I think he's just trying to keep his head down for now. The other two, well, they've got a better sense of the phrase 'No man left behind' than the rest of the squad, unfortunately. They don't necessarily like Princese, but they're a bit more willing to look past that to help out a fellow soldier."

"What'd he do?" Clint asked as he watched Princese frown, glance to the side, and then _miss_. The archer's eyes narrowed. It was well hidden, but it was a deliberate miss. In a twisted sort of fashion in Clint's eyes, it took talent to screw up on purpose and keep his leadership from noticing.

"Got separated from his squad while he was on deployment after they stumbled on some arms dealer hiding in the hills. He and his spotter went on the run, and Barber took a hit to the gut that slowed 'em down. They got turned around during the firefight, and got lost in the desert. The wound turned septic, and they had no way to get help," the Master Sergeant recounted, his tone full of pity. "Barber recorded a message to his loved ones and begged Princese for a mercy kill. He was sent back to his unit after he stumbled back to base. CID cleared him, in case you're wondering, but the kid's still not over it."

Clint winced. "I take it the rest of the squad wasn't happy about that?"

"Hell no. Barber was a social butterfly – he was friends with pretty much everyone he met. They didn't take his death well at all. Princese's social skills are pretty much shit, which doesn't help. Kid's got a major chip on his shoulder, and Barber was really the only friend he had."

"Has he been seeing a counselor?"

"Regularly. He'll be in and out of the VA for quite some time, I figure," the NCO sighed, looking over at Clint. "Damn shame, too – once you get past the prickly exterior, he's not a bad kid."

The SHIELD agent nodded. "I'd like his file."

"You sure, sir?" The liaison gave him a strange look. "I don't think –"

"Master Sergeant, I asked for your best soldiers," Clint replied curtly. He tapped the stack. "What I've got here are a bunch of Rambo wanna-bes and a few who have what I'm actually looking for. And I told you I needed a marksman – why wasn't Princese's file included?"

"He has been a bit off on his shooting, sir. We've chocked it up to nerves, or being a bit distracted after what happened."

"Bullshit."

Hughes scoffed. "He's missing half his shots –"

"Look again." Clint nodded back towards the target area. "Check the grouping on his hits."

The NCO looked through the binoculars for several minutes, watching the soldier closely. The man scowled, lowering the device before giving Clint a bewildered look. "Fuck _me_. He's throwing the exercise. How the hell did you see that without a scope or a set of binoculars?"

There was something about the quiet anger that seemed to radiate from Specialist Princese; the hunched shoulders, the constant dropping of his gaze to the ground, and the looks of longing as he hung back from his peers. Clint had seen it all before, many years ago, when he had looked in the mirror. He had never been able to relate or communicate well with his peers when he had first joined the army due to his strange upbringing. The isolation had almost driven him to madness, and he would most likely have snapped at some point if he hadn't met Flynn.

Sometimes, all it took was one person to take the time try to _understand_. From the look of things, Princese didn't have that here. Besides, if his suspicions were correct…"

"I've got good eyes. Look," the archer replied dryly, tucking away the memories. He looked down, pulling several folders out of the stack. "I'd like to talk to these five here, and I want to see Princese shoot on the range again once everyone leaves. Let's see if he does better without an audience."

* * *

"You're not in trouble, Specialist. He just wants you to shoot again," Master Sergeant Hughes explained quietly as he handed him a fresh clip.

Princese felt his hands grow sweaty. "Sarge, are you sure? There're other guys with higher scores."

"Just get down and run through the exercise again," the range master ordered, giving the civilian a side-long glance. "He came a long way to see you boys, so we might as well humor the man."

He nodded, taking his place again at the sandbags. Bracing his rifle, he took a deep breath. Unsure whether or not to miss this time, he concentrated on keeping his hands from shaking.

Was the stranger from CID, trying to re-open the investigation? Princese had been told by his CO that he had been cleared of any charges, but...had they changed their minds? Could they _do_ that? The last thing he wanted was to have to re-tell the story again. Each recounting had driven a knife deeper into his heart.

Squeezing the trigger, he flinched as the shot went wide.

"Cease fire!" the rangemaster called.

There was no way they were going to want him to keep this up. Hopefully, they would just leave him alone. So far, it had worked with his squad mates; the less attention he drew to himself, the easier it would be to make a nice, calm exit and move on with his life. He let his head fall onto his forearm, letting out a quiet groan.

"Specialist, why don't you just drop the act and shoot the fucking target?" a quiet voice nearly growled into his ear. "I don't have time for bullshit."

Princese's head jerked up, barely missing the other man's knee. The civilian "observer" was squatting next to him, looking down with his sunglasses slightly lowered to reveal a calculating gaze. He hadn't even heard the man approach.

The man wore simple jeans, combat boots with loose laces, and a worn, black windbreaker. He sat like a coiled spring, ready to leap into action like a few "snake-eaters" they had met on base in Iraq. The observer's tone brooked no argument, as if he was used to people jumping to follow his orders. It was the man's eyes, though, that had the Specialist suddenly looking to him for guidance; they were the same ones Princese saw every morning in the mirror.

_Civilian observer, my ass_, Princese thought. "Sir?"

"Shoot. The. Target," the man enunciated. "Properly, this time."

The younger man nodded weakly. Bracing the rifle again, Princese focused on the target again. His eyes narrowed. _Shoot properly? I'll show you _proper_._

Princese fired ten more times, each bullet forming a small group at the center. He smirked. The man snorted , turned, and walked away with Master Sergeant Hughes following behind.

As he turned to the range master with a quizzical look, the older man merely shook his head. "Fucking spooks."

* * *

_Later that day, back at the Squadron HQ…_

Princese entered the room, taking the seat that the civilian – Mr. Smith – had waved him towards. The older man leaned back with his chair, casually flipping through the service record. Every so often, the man's eyebrow arched, as if finding something of interest.

"So, Specialist Princese," Smith asked finally, "why'd you join up?"

"I wanted to do something good with myself," Princese replied carefully. "I, uh, wanted to serve my country."

The man looked at him skeptically, arching an eyebrow.

Princese shrugged. "And, I guess, get some college money. I didn't qualify for any scholarships out of high school, and I couldn't afford school."

"Do you like the Army?"

"It's good," the younger man replied quickly, his knee bouncing nervously. "It's great."

Smith snapped the folder shut and gave him a scathing look. He gently laid the folder down, and folded his hands in front of him. "Don't. Just don't. I don't give a shit about any rehearsed speeches you have or whether you're giving me the answer you think I want to hear."

"That is the answer –"

"I learned how to recognize a lie from one of the best in the business, and you, kid, are a shitty liar. I just want an honest answer. I'm not a psychologist, and this isn't a test. So try again."

Princese sank lower into his chair. He looked down at the floor for several minutes, trying to find the best explanation. "I _did _like it, until a few months ago. It was great. I thought I was doing something useful with my life. Like I was making a real difference, you know?"

Smith nodded slowly, keeping his expression neutral.

"I like it. The structure…the discipline," the Specialist continued. "I was kind of a screw-up in high school – I always seemed to pick the wrong thing to say, or piss off the wrong guy. If you couldn't tell from my name, I kinda got teased a little. Okay, a _lot_. But here, I dunno. I don't always get along with people, but I still kind of _fit_, in a way."

The older man leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "I typically don't like bringing up shit like what happened back in the sandbox. It's painful. I get that. But I find myself forced to ask you one question in regards to your mercy kill." He gave Princese a piercing look. "Why?"

Princese took a deep breath. "Because…he asked me to. Barber…he was my friend. He knew we weren't gonna make it out, and I think…he just wanted to give me a fighting chance. Barber was gonna die, and he wanted to go out with some dignity instead of wasting away, in pain. It would've been torture."

He looked down again, and then back up at Smith. "It just felt like the only choice. Not that the guys can see that."

"What if you could start fresh?"

"Sir?"

The man pulled a phone out, tapping on the screen. "Start fresh. Doing pretty much what you do now, but not for the Army."

"I'm not sure. I mean, I've still got about a month left."

"We're not exactly in a rush just yet." Smith set his phone down and looked back up at Princese. "Specialist, I represent an organization that investigates and intercepts threats from, let's just say _unique_ sources."

"What, like Homeland Security?"

"We're a bit more global, but yes. Sort of. Now, some of our operatives are a bit unique, and downright scary, but those aren't what we're really looking for here. No group runs without guys like us on the front lines."

Princese chewed his lip slightly. The idea of being able to continue with his job without half of the baggage he had been carrying on his shoulders was tempting. "Can I have some time to think about it?"

The other man shrugged. "Sure. You've got a month 'til you muster out, but you probably want to think fast. This sort of deal doesn't usually come around twice. Provided you sign on, all that's left is a psych eval and the paperwork, of course."

"What, no field evaluation?"

"You think you boys just ran your asses into the ground for nothing?" Smith scoffed. "Your squad was just put through the equivalent of our entry-level Operations field test. You've got a good, strong unit – most of you would've passed the physical part with flying colors."

"And the not-so-physical part?"

The observer held up three fingers. "Three of you made the short list. Three."

"Who?" Princese asked out of curiosity.

"Classified."

The Specialist nodded quietly, noting the other man's irreverent tone as he said the word.

* * *

_A week later…_

"Yo Princese!" Sergeant Hoffman called. "The Captain wants to see you."

Princese nodded, making his way to the Company Commander's office, reporting in. Master Sergeant Hughes stood quietly next to Captain Pelton's desk. The CO motioned for him to shut the door.

"Specialist," the officer said, sliding a packet across his desk. "This came for you. Take a few minutes to look."

Princese looked down, spotting a large eagle symbol printed on the front of the packet. He frowned, trying to recall where he had seen it before. Opening the package, he pulled out a stack of brochures, along with a cover letter and a business card.

He picked up the business card, reading the name printed next to the logo. "Strategic Homeland – sir, is this for real?"

"That's what it looks like," the Captain said with a nod of affirmation. "SHIELD sent a recruiter out last week to look for some new talent. They've sent these packets to the soldiers they'd like to recruit. One of the three names picked out of over eighty soldiers was yours, Specialist."

"Mr. Smith," Princese commented dryly. He looked up at his CO in confusion. "But…why me?"

"I don't know, and frankly, it's not supposed to be my business." The officer leaned back. "Normally, we don't deal much with the likes of SHIELD. We're grunts. Infantry. We go off and fight the wars wherever Uncle Sam wants to send us. These guys, from what little I've been able to find out, they go all across the world as sort of self-appointed peacekeepers. Nobody knows who they report to in the long run, and frankly, soldier, that scares the shit out of me."

Captain Pelton picked up a pen, twirling it slightly as he gave the Specialist a stern look. "I don't like nudging people towards intelligence organizations. I don't trust them, but they're there for a reason, I suppose. Normally, I would warn any of my soldiers away from an offer like this since we don't know anything about them. I'd rather you take this bunch of brochures and burn the damn thing. But, in your case, it may actually be something to think about."

"Yes sir," Princese replied numbly, his gaze lowering to the floor.

"You're a good soldier, Princese. You've were put in a shitty situation, but you survived, and you didn't run away from the situation. You faced it with honor," Pelton said gently, laying his pen down. "I know that you may not believe it, but Barber would be proud, and don't you ever believe otherwise. I can't imagine having to go through something like what you did."

The CO nodded towards Hughes, who stepped forward. "I've worked with SHIELD before, back when I was in Military Intelligence. Some of their special operatives can be a bunch of psychotic sons of bitches at times, but they face down shit that will make your hair turn white. If they're recruiting you, it's for a good reason. I know the men have been giving you a hard time –"

"That's an understatement," the Specialist muttered under his breath.

"-But honestly, it may be a better fit for you," Hughes continued. "I know you want to serve your country. I'd rather see you re-up at the end of your enlistment, but honestly, son…you're not gonna be happy here. Not anymore. We'd rather see you go where you can make a difference rather than wallow in guilt and misery."

"Read the info they've sent," Pelton ordered gently. "Give yourself some time to think about it, and call the number if you've got questions."

"Yes sir."

* * *

_Several months later…_

Princese focused on the screen at the front of the lecture room and flipped the page on his issued notebook, adding to his extensive list of names and comments that already filled the pages. It wouldn't do to go to the next duty station unprepared. Agent Pitt had mentioned that this security briefing would be one of the most important in their early careers, and he intended to make sure he figured out why.

He glanced around at the other dozing students. Most had just completed a set of field exercises based on their areas of expertise, and a majority of the students had been up all night. Princese had decided it was more training; just because you were tired or sleepy didn't mean that an emergency mission wouldn't come up. One thing he had learned from his time in the Army was to never sleep through a briefing if possible.

Feeling his own head start to nod, he stood and moved quietly to the back of the room with his notebook, ignoring the confused looks of his peers. The lecturer simply gave him a nod of approval and proceeded with the briefing. Opening his notebook again, he looked back up at the screen and continued his notes.

"Next category is Operations. You boys and girls may want to pay special attention," Agent Pitt continued, clicking a button on his controller. "Especially those of you going into Ops. Most of you will be pulling security at some point, and many of our Special Field Operatives do not carry a visible badge. You see one of 'em heading your way at a fast pace, you pay fucking attention, follow their orders, or get out of their way – they're probably on the move for a reason, and it's not usually good."

Princese watched as several profiles were brought up on the screen, one by one. Agent Pitt ran through the senior handlers, including some of the more infamous agents – Coulson, Sitwell, Woo, Quartermain…each gained their own short summary in his notebook. It was when Pitt started going through the strike teams that things started to get more interesting, as most of the information about what they did was classified.

He tried to ignore the whispers, sighs and cat-calls as some of the more attractive agents came on screen.

"Keep it down, people. Next, we have Strike Team Delta," Pitt announced. "Details are _very_ classified with these two. This is a two-person team, and currently one of the only ones Level Seven or above. Do not piss either of them off without a good reason, people – it will piss the other one off, and you _will_ regret it. Be polite, and show some respect – they've seen and done too much shit to deserve otherwise."

Pitt clicked his remote, and the screen showed a beautiful woman in her twenties, with deep, auburn red hair which fell over her shoulders. There were several catcalls, and more appreciative whispering. Even Princese couldn't deny that she was _hot_.

"First up is Agent Romanoff, code name Black Widow. She's Russian, and will assist with polishing your conversational Russian skills if number one, you request it ahead of time in writing, and two, you ask nicely. Do not ask her out on a date, do not bother her with shitty pickup lines, and do not, I mean do _not _harass this woman in any way or you'll probably find yourself finding out the hard way just how stupid you were."

There were several snorts of disbelief, which Pitt rolled his eyes at as he finished the quick list of "how to not piss off Agent Romanoff so she won't twist you into a pretzel." The list was longer than Princese expected; he wrote each down, underlining them. Agent Pitt clicked to the next profile, bringing up a middle-aged man.

Princese froze, nearly dropping his pen as he recognized Mr. Smith.

"The other half of Strike Team Delta is Agent Barton, code-name Hawkeye," Pitt continued. "Ops agents, if this man says jump, you ask 'How High.' Agent Barton is one of the most senior field operatives in SHIELD, ladies and gentlemen. He reports directly and _only_ to the Director and Agent Coulson. If you're on a mission with him, do not ignore any insights or orders, no matter how weird or crazy they seem. He's got the best eyes in SHIELD, so he probably saw something you didn't."

Pitt continued with several warnings, like he had with Agent Romanoff. Princese let out a sigh, letting his head fall back gently against the wall as the agent lectured. Why would one of SHIELD's top agents be pulling recruiting duty, and of all people, pick a screw-up like him? It just didn't make any sense.

"Those of you going to R and D, I'll give you a fair warning. He's got an adversarial relationship with the department, so take any equipment, armor or weaponry ideas to your supervisor, and they'll route it accordingly. He handles his own weaponry needs, so don't approach him trying to give your career a boost. That goes for anyone going to Medical. You'll have your own briefing on agent medical profiles when you report to your next duty station. Next up, we've got Strike Team Echo, led by Agent Hartwell – the big man himself."

Princese sighed as Agent Pitt rambled on. This organization was getting weirder and weirder by the minute.

* * *

_SHIELD Headquarters, several weeks later…_

Princese hoped he wasn't too early. He made his way to the assigned range, dodging several other agents who appeared to have been in a hurry. Opening the door to the training area, he looked around for the range master.

He spotted one agent standing with his back to the door. The agent stiffened and turned slightly, and nodded in greeting. The older man was dressed in black tactical pants, a black t-shirt and tactical vest, with combat boots.

It was the loose laces that gave Princese reason to pause. The only other person in the range was none other than Mr. Smith – er, Agent Barton. The younger agent looked around in confusion. "Sir? I was supposed to report here for training – is the Training Officer here yet?"

Barton beckoned him forward. "Sorry about the deception back during your Army days, but well…we try to be discreet. Let me introduce myself properly: my name is Agent Clint Barton, codename Hawkeye. Barton is fine, so's Agent Barton. I'll be your Training Officer for your Distance Support training."

Princese's eyes widened. He had been told by numerous agents about the veteran operative's shooting prowess; what he had done to Prescott the other week during the "Shell Game" alone was enough to make him a believer. Training with Barton or any of the higher level agents was considered a privilege.

He looked back at the door, waiting for any other trainees to appear. "Will anyone else be joining us, sir?"

Barton shook his head. "No, just you and me. Will that be a problem?"

"No, sir."

"Good." The older man pressed a control on the wall. A clunk from the direction of the door told Princese that the range had been locked down. "Don't worry about the locks. I don't like stupid interruptions when I'm teaching."

Princese nodded, approaching the bench. It held several cases, as well as a weapons rack which housed several rifles. Clips of various calibers sat on a shelf below the rack. He moved to the datapad that held the range records, signing in as he had been taught during training. SHIELD tracked pretty much everything, he had discovered.

"Let's get this party started." Barton leaned back against the counter top, giving him a serious look and indicating towards the rifles. "Pick one, and let's see if you can beat your previous qualification scores."

Barton tested him for two hours, ordering him to fire from various positions on the range. The younger agent finally understood why they had been the only two in the range; any additional agents there may have interfered with some of the firing positions he had been asked to try. His shoulders ached from the occasional recoil mishap after a more complicated maneuver.

"Cease fire," Barton called. "Secure your rifle."

Princese nodded, ejecting the clip and clicking on the safety before slinging the weapon over his shoulder. He approached the bench and set the rifle down on one of the stands to allow it to cool down before cleaning. Rubbing his shoulder with a wince, he turned to Barton for further instructions.

"Good shooting," the agent reported. "Looks like we've to got a ninety-two-point-three hit rate, but that's understandable as you're not using standard maneuvers and firing positions. It's pretty damn good by normal standards. By mine, you've got room for improvement. I'd like to see ninety-five by next month."

"Next month? So, this isn't a one-time thing?" Princese asked, looking at the older man in confusion. "Not that there's anything bad about it, sir, but –"

"It's only a one-time thing if you want it to be," Barton replied. He paused, giving Princese an almost hesitant look. If the younger agent didn't know better, he would think Barton almost looked disappointed. "If you'd rather have a different Training Officer for your specialized training…"

"It's fine, sir!" Princese replied quickly. He caught an almost imperceptible look of relief in the other man's eyes. Maybe they had more in common than he had first thought. "I just didn't think they assigned specialized training to new agents."

"They don't, but in this case they made an exception. I recommended the training since you were recruited to provide distance support. You're a sniper, kid. No sense putting all that good training to waste."

"Aren't we supposed to earn it first? There're other agents who have been here longer."

Barton snorted. "Yeah, and they receive training as needed. Every agent gets a specialized plan at some point. Yours just got a head start."

* * *

_Several weeks later…_

The older man turned back to the weapon rack, pulling another rifle off of the wall. He began checking the mechanisms in a practiced motion. "Tell me, Princese, how many of the special protocols did they go over with you back in training?"

"Several of them, sir." The former Specialist began mentally ticking numbers off, trying to work out which he would be asked about. "There's the NHC-One…"

Barton nodded as he listed off several others. "There's another one that comes up every now and then, almost as rare as NHC-One. Have they told you about the Code Tango Seven Protocol?"

Princese shook his head. "No sir. They apparently missed that one."

"Well," Barton continued, "Code Tango Seven is invoked when an agent who is Level Seven or above feels they're becoming a threat to SHIELD or the general public. That agent can designate a proxy. When the protocol is activated, the proxy will neutralize the threat."

"It's a self-termination protocol?" the younger agent said, blinking in surprise. "SHIELD actually _has_ those?"

"Yep."

Barton placed the weapon gently on the bench top, his hands tightening on the stock as he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You probably have heard some rumors by now about the Loki thing. Hell – all of SHIELD knows about it."

Princese nodded. "I also know that all the guys I've heard talk about it say it wasn't your fault, sir." He now understood the man's earlier reactions, as well as the familiar look of guilt in his eyes. The junior agent began to pace slowly, chewing a thumbnail nervously. "A lot of the guys…they'll follow you to hell and back if you asked."

"Yeah. They might."

What does that have to do with the Code Tango Seven protocol?" Princese asked, although he had a sick feeling in his gut. From everything he'd heard, Barton was methodical - he didn't do anything without having a purpose behind it.

"I'm asking you to be my designated proxy."

"Why me?" he asked, watching the grim look on the older agent's face. "I…I'm a junior agent, sir. This is… what you're asking me to do is insane!"

Barton stared at him calmly before answering. "Don't play dumb with me, kid. Look, I know it's a shitty thing to ask, but the thing of it is… nobody else'll do it. I'm dead serious. At least, nobody that's skilled enough to do the job."

"And you think I can? Uh, do the job, sir?"

The archer grimaced. "It's not just that you can, soldier. It's that you _will_. I know your record- about what you did for your squad mate. Mercy kills are no joke, and I know it hurts having to live with it afterwards."

"So how can you ask me to do it again? How do you know it'll ever be needed?" Princese asked angrily, whirling back from the direction he had been pacing anxiously. "I don't even know why you want this, sir."

"Compromised," Hawkeye said quietly, looking down at his feet. "It's such a clean word for an ugly situation. The last time I was compromised, I attacked and nearly destroyed the Helicarrier. Today, they still won't tell me how many deaths I'm responsible for; not that I haven't already found out using my own personal methods. I have done some truly rotten things when I've been compromised, kid - I can't let it happen again."

Barton looked up, his gaze growing intense as he repeated himself. "I can't let it happen again. I _won't_."

"So what does that have to do with me?" the younger sniper asked.

"It has _everything_ to do with you," Barton scoffed. "Coulson, Romanoff… even Fury. All of them, I can't count on to take the shot without hesitation. They hide it well, but they care too much. If they hesitate for too long, it might be too late."

"But sir…"

"There's a reason I asked you, Princese." Barton straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm going to make it my personal goal to make sure you've got enough skills to do it. And I know that when the time comes where you have to choose whether or not to take the shot, you'll do the right thing. Now, let's move on to the M21 Sniper Weapon System rifle - one of my personal favorites."

* * *

_Later that afternoon…_

Clint caught up with the Deputy Director as she headed for the Quinjet that would take her back to the Helicarrier after her meeting with Fury. "Agent Hill – can I have a word?"

She stopped, turning around and giving him a hard look. "Can I help you, Agent Barton?"

"Yeah," he replied, guiding her to one of the secure conference rooms. "I just need a minute."

"I have a jet waiting," she replied with an annoyed tone. "Make this quick."

He handed her the signed form he had brought with him. She looked down at the document, which sported a blank signature line below her printed name. The foot she had been quietly tapping paused.

Her eyes widened as she looked up at him. "Barton, is this real?"

Clint nodded. She held his gaze for a minute, watching for any sign that this was a prank or a way to distract her from some nefarious activity. Hill had never trusted him, thinking him too much of a loose cannon after he defied the kill order on Natasha. It was still worth it.

"You're not joking," she replied, her voice lowering. "You _do_ know what this means, right? If you enable this protocol at any time, we are legally obligated to _neutralize_ you. This is not something to take lightly!"

"I know perfectly well what it means. I'm not taking it lightly, and no – I'm not fucking joking about this, Hill." He looked back at her with a resolute expression. "I know everyone keeps saying they don't blame me for what went down with the carrier, but…I've done the math. Loki was running the show, but it was _my_ plan that caused the damage. My bow. My fucking _arrows_."

"Barton…have you talked to your counselor about this?" she asked, her expression changing to one of sympathy. "Does Fury know what you're planning? This is an extreme measure."

"No, I haven't talked to Mitch about it. He can't know. Nobody else can know about this."

Hill frowned. "You do know this is basically assisted suicide. I should be reporting you to Psych for this – you're not a current threat to anyone here, unless you count my sanity."

"Psych. Right. They're not the ones who have to see this shit over and over again at night when they sleep," Clint told her, looking at her with haunted eyes. "I can't let it happen again. I know how much damage I did. I can't…I _need_ this, Hill. I need to know that there'll be a measure in place if I ever get compromised again."

"Why not have Coulson act as your authenticator?"

"Because as much as I know you hate me, I trust you to make the right choice if it comes down to it. Coulson…he's too soft. Anyone else high enough level to enforce it would take too much time to do so."

"I'm not sure whether I've been insulted or complimented," Hill replied dryly. She pulled a pen out of a pocket, hesitating slightly above the signature line. "There's no going back once I sign this, Barton. Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

The Deputy Director shook her head in resignation and signed the form. "It's your funeral. Literally." She tucked the form away in her laptop case. "Done. I'll file it for you on the Helicarrier while the Director's at the conference, unless you'd rather have him find out about it. He'll have you dragged off to the nearest inpatient ward if he does – for your own good of course."

"Thanks."

"You can thank me by not enacting the protocol unless the damn world is ending. And Barton," she added. He looked up. "We just…tend to disagree on how to do things. I don't hate you."

Clint chuckled quietly as she left. The archer sighed, pulling out the other forms he had to update as well – his medical proxy, Will, and several others that HR had been hounding him about. He had put it off long enough.


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: The Avengers are not mine, but Marvel/Disney's. Any operations medical or military may have been written using research and some artistic license. If there are inaccuracies, no offense is intended._

_Oh, and Brother-in-law Phil belongs to Bochco._

* * *

_Stark Tower, mid-December…_

"Hello Steve," Pepper greeted, smiling as she entered the kitchen area. She set her purse down on the table. "I was wondering if you have a few minutes?"

He returned the smile, looking up from his sketchpad. "Always. What's up?"

"I'm trying to finish preparations for the Stark Industries Gala, and I had a thought," she said cheerfully, peeking over his shoulder at the sketch. Her eyes widened in appreciation. "Wow, Steve – that's incredible! You've caught every detail!"

"Thanks," Steve replied shyly, fidgeting with his pencil. "It's not finished yet, but I think I'm happy with how it's turning out."

"Is this an assignment for that class you're taking?"

The super-soldier nodded. "We're covering realism, so the instructor assigned us a still life drawing. Our choice, thankfully. I thought this…assortment…would work. Sort of a, uh, fantasy within realism thing."

He gestured towards the small collection of superhero action figures that had mysteriously appeared on the kitchen counter one day. They were stacked in a cluster much like he had seen on some of the posters plastered on store windows around the city, each in a different heroic pose.

"Well, Batman looks very dashing, and Superman is looking particularly handsome," she commented, giving him a warm smile. "I think your instructor is going to be very pleased."

Steve grinned, spinning the pencil again. "So, you said you had a thought about the Gala?"

Pepper nodded. "I got to thinking about it, and that led to thinking about celebrations in general. I was wondering – do you know if everyone else has plans for the holidays? I know we all had Thanksgiving together, though Clint sort of vanished for that one, but I kind of thought it might be nice to spend it together on Christmas. You know – all of us?"

"I think it's a swell idea," Steve replied, tapping the pencil eraser against his chin. Who needed those new-fangled mechanical ones anyway? At least the leads didn't break as easily on a good, old-fashioned number two. "Christmas is special – it's meant to be spent among family."

"And since most of the team doesn't seem to have family, I hate to admit it," she added with a slight grimace, "I thought maybe we could all spend it together."

He seemed to ponder the idea before smiling. "You know, we didn't have much, but we had each other back before the War. We'd scrounge up what we could, trade for enough stuff to slap together a good, hearty dinner…the neighbors in my building who didn't travel tended to all get together and share what we had. Everyone left with a full belly and a warm heart."

"Well, enough people here cook that I don't think the full belly part will be much of a problem," she said, leaning back in her chair. Her face fell. "It's the other part that I'm worried about."

"Worry about what?" Tony's voice cut in as he entered the room, a container in hand. Bruce trailed behind him, studying a tablet. "Hey, Bruce - should we be worried?"

Bruce merely mumbled to himself and continued walking into the kitchen. The inventor slipped past him, making his way to the refrigerator. He pulled out another plastic container, setting it on top of the counter next to the half empty jug of pink liquid he had brought with him.

Pepper frowned. "I thought we agreed no experiments in the common area, Tony."

"It's not – it's recycling. I need to analyze what's in it," he countered as he poured himself a glass of milk. "So, what are we worried about?"

"_We_ are not worried about anything," she replied with an arched eyebrow. "Steve and I were talking about Christmas, and possibly doing some sort of team get-together on Christmas morning."

Tony shrugged. "Eh, fine by me. Knock yourselves out – just let me know where I need to be. Jarvis?"

"_Yes, sir?"_

"Clear my schedule for whatever time Pepper and Cap decide." He turned back to Pepper, giving her a questioning look.

She smiled at him and nodded. He turned back to the counter, putting the jug away and pitching a balled up napkin at Bruce. "Hey, Brucie!"

"Uh, wha –" the physicist muttered, blinking as the small bit of paper pegged him in the forehead. He watched it fall to the floor. "Right. Christmas."

"You game for it, Doc?" Steve asked amiably. "If not Christmas morning, maybe something on Christmas Eve. Do you have any particular holiday traditions you'd like to share?"

Bruce's eyes fell to his feet as he shifted uncomfortably. He put his tablet down and took his glasses off, rubbing them with a handkerchief. "You could, uh, say that."

"Go on," Tony urged, giving the others a sour look. "It can't be any more awkward than _my_ lovely Christmas mornings. Mom and Dad usually went off to Bermuda. Most kids go running into their parents room to tell them that Santa came, but that would entail them being told that Santa existed. I figured it out when I was three."

"Howard left you alone? On Christmas?" Steve asked, his tone filled with disbelief.

Tony scoffed. "I wasn't alone. I had _Jarvis_. Poor old guy practically raised me."

Steve sighed. Pepper gave him a sympathetic look; she knew he had been fond of Howard Stark, and had taken a while to get used to the fact that the man he knew and the man who had fathered Tony were apparently two totally different people. He had gotten much better about holding his tongue when talking about him, fortunately – it had led to fewer arguments between Steve and Tony.

"Well…Christmas was kind of…nice," Bruce began, setting his glasses back on his face. "My dad usually left us alone on the holidays, if you know what I mean. Mainly, because he'd spend all of his time at the lab since a bunch of the other staff weren't there. He liked the peace and quiet."

They quieted, watching him with widened eyes. Bruce's history had been documented in his SHIELD profile, though they rarely spoke of it. Brian Banner's abuse had been one of the cornerstones in the formation of the Hulk. Clint and Bruce talked with each other about their pasts, on occasion, due to sharing a history of abusive fathers. It had allowed them to find some common ground.

Pepper cleared her throat. "That's…good, Bruce."

"Anyone know about whether or not Thor or the deadly duo would go for it?" Tony asked as he returned the carton to the refrigerator.

"Well, Thor mentioned that they have some sort of winter festival back home," Bruce said, scratching his eyebrow. "I'm not sure if he knows what Christmas is, but Jane might have told him about it. Those guys love to party, though, so he'll probably be all for giving it a shot."

"What about Clint and Natasha?" Steve asked.

Pepper's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure, to be honest. We'll have to ask them about it. Oh, and Tony? Don't forget to put up the milk when you're done with it."

* * *

_Later that night…_

Clint groaned as he entered the kitchen, having spent the last twelve hours in a debriefing session with some of the analysts from the Intelligence section. As he looked up at the clock on the wall, he winced, and turned to the refrigerator. Natasha was going to be upset – he had forgotten to eat again.

"Jarvis?" he asked quietly. "Do we have any leftovers?"

There was no answer. Clint sighed, and tapped on the counter, pulling up Jarvis's manual input interface to check his status. Sure enough, the AI was offline: _Scheduled Diagnostic Mode Engaged._

He paused, smirking at the sketch of an assortment of action figures clipped to the refrigerator door by a magnet. Opening the door, he looked down to investigate the contents. There was little left in his own fridge upstairs in his apartment, so hopefully there was something he could snack on before he went to bed.

A container caught his eye. It was a small, one liter milk jug which looked approximately half full. Looking at it curiously, he pulled out the container of thick liquid and removed the lid, smelling the contents.

Egg nog.

Clint smiled. There was only one good thing about Christmas, and that was egg nog. Not the overly spiced or rum-spiked version; it was one of the few things he found himself having a hard time resisting. A good, off-the-shelf brand from a local supermarket was generally good enough, but he did have plenty of memories of the home-made variety that his mother used to make.

At least, until his father would douse it with rum, whiskey, or whatever else he could get his hands on.

It was too good a temptation to pass up. The community kitchen rule was that if it didn't have a name, it was fair game. Thankfully, there was more than enough left for other people, so they wouldn't miss it if he took a sample of the contents.

Just a little bit.

* * *

_The next morning…_

Steve greeted the others as he entered the kitchen. Natasha had already eaten and sat reading a magazine while Pepper was explaining something, most likely their Christmas idea. Tony was cursing quietly at the toaster, until he finally banged it with a spatula. Muttering to himself, he unplugged it and carried it over to the table, pulling out a screwdriver.

Bruce shook his head and turned back to his book. A complicated array of mathematical formulas was scattered in front of him, written on various sheets of binder paper, a tablet, and scribbled into the book margins. Thor soon trailed in behind him, no doubt drawn by the smell of coffee.

"Steve – I was just telling Natasha about the Christmas idea," Pepper reported, straightening in her chair.

Natasha shrugged, taking a sip of what appeared to be fruit juice. "I don't usually worry too much about the holidays."

"But they're holidays!" Steve replied with a chuckle. "They're supposed to be spent among family and friends."

"You're forgetting that I had neither in my formative years," she replied calmly. "I don't see the point."

"Surely Clint or Coulson don't let you spend it alone," Pepper admonished, pouting at the redhead. "And what about Easter? I _know_ you were working with Stark Industries early enough for the annual Employee Easter party. Well, _undercover_, anyway."

"It was an assignment," Natasha replied dryly.

Bruce looked up from his books. "Would you be willing to give it a shot? It would mean a lot to Pepper."

She glanced over to Pepper's hopeful expression, and sighed. "Alright – as long as I'm not on assignment."

Thor meandered over to the refrigerator to prepare his own breakfast while Steve looked around. An untouched coffee pot sat on the custom, three-pot coffee maker, still full, while another began to fill with the Asgardian's favorite blend. Something was out of place.

"Say, where's Clint? Isn't he usually up by now?" the super-soldier asked.

Tony looked up from his tinkering. "You know, you're right. Where _is_ Legolas?"

Natasha shrugged again. "He finished a full day of debriefing yesterday, and got home late as far as I know. He may still be asleep."

"He always walks Arrow in the early morning, though," Bruce commented. "I don't think he could sleep in even if he wanted to - Arrow wouldn't let him. I should know, since he woke me up at about five the last time I dog-sat."

They looked at Pepper, who shook her head. "One of the security guards walks him since I don't always have time – one of the newer dog handlers we hired for the guard dog program. Clint checked his background personally."

"Thor – what are you doing?" Tony sputtered, dropping the screwdriver he had been holding, and watching the large warrior with wide eyes. "You can't drink that!"

The Asgardian paused, having finished his glass, wiping a pink residue off of his mustache. He looked back at Tony with a confused expression. "I thought if there was no name, it was for anyone to consume."

"It is…just not that," the inventor chided, pointing at the now empty carton on the counter. "Where did that come from? It was supposed to be disposed of yesterday!"

"'Twas in the ice box," Thor replied, frowning at the container. "Was this not meant to be shared? It smells like our _bloddrikke_ from home, though without the blood – more like the egg drink that my fair Jane introduced me to last week."

"Egg nog?" Natasha asked, her voice taking on a sharp tone as she stood up from her chair. "_Please_ tell me it doesn't smell like egg nog."

Tony's eyes became panicked. "It's not egg nog, big guy – that's a smoothie that Dummy experimented with last week. At least, I think it was _supposed_ to be a smoothie. He was trying to hide it under the sink in my lab, so for all I know, it could be moonshine. I was taking it to Bruce's lab to analyze it before I threw it out, but I guess I got side-tracked when we talked about the Christmas plans."

"Come to think of it," the Asgardian said softly before letting out a belch. He gave the jug a suspicious look. "I _do_ feel a slight tingle in my innards."

"Tony – _why_ was it in the refrigerator?" Pepper cried as the other redhead moved closer and picked up the jug, wrinkling her nose at the smell.

"But Pepper –" Tony argued.

She cut him off with a glare, and then pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is why there are no experiments allowed in the kitchen! Now you've poisoned Thor –"

"Technically, it wasn't me, it was _Dummy_," the inventor argued, giving her a guilty look. "I can't help it when the bots decide to try new recipes!"

"No, you just somehow forgot to take it with you back to the lab and put it in the refrigerator instead – the one that we _eat and drink_ out of."

"Bruce distracted me while we were talking about the Christmas thing," Tony argued, ignoring Bruce's annoyed look. "I forgot! It's an honest mistake –"

"Uh, bootlegging bots aside, don't you think we need to check for anyone else who may have tried Dummy's 'special brew'?" Bruce asked, forming air quotes.

"_Clint,_" Natasha muttered, rushing past them and to the elevator.

* * *

Natasha grimaced as she entered Clint's apartment, hearing the retching sound coming from the bathroom. Arrow met her at the doorway, whining, with his tail tucked between his legs. She let him out onto the patio, where Tony had had an "emergency tree" installed.

"Jarvis must still be in diagnostic mode," Steve commented from the doorway, with Bruce following behind him. "Is it safe to come in?"

She nodded, moving quietly to the master suite. Steve had never had a reason to enter Clint's apartment, as they usually hung out in the common area or kitchen. The only other suites he had entered were Thor and Bruce's rooms after he had been invited over while the others were on missions. There had never been a reason to invade anyone else's space before, and Steve could appreciate the need for privacy.

A large, bulky printer sat on top of the counter near a stack of antique maps. Books were neatly shelved throughout the room, the overflow tomes stacked in orderly piles on the top of the bookshelves or nearby table and counter tops. The walls were painted a soothing lavender, with tasteful accent colors and pieces of landscape artwork that he recognized as Pepper's personal touch.

He followed Natasha quickly, looking around out of habit as he moved. The only things out of place in the otherwise picture-perfect décor were a worn trio of plush dolls and a black metal box sitting on the end table next to the couch. Even the chew toys seemed to be stacked neatly in a bin next to a large dog bed.

Shortly, he made his way through the rooms until he found himself looking at Clint's bathroom. The archer himself was hugging the toilet, moaning pitifully. Natasha hovered nearby, holding her phone to her ear and biting her lip.

"Now that can't be sanitary," Steve commented.

"Of all the things, why did it have to be egg nog?" Clint moaned as he dry-heaved again. "Who the fuck poisoned the egg nog?"

"It wasn't egg nog," Natasha corrected as Bruce tried to pat his back in a comforting gesture. "It was a week old smoothie. Or something like that."

"But it _smelled_ like egg nog…"

She rolled her eyes. "It was _pink_, Clint. Egg nog is yellow, not Pepto-bismol pink."

"I'm fucking color-blind, Tasha – _everything_ yellow looks pink!"

Steve blinked in surprise as he waited quietly from the doorway. He had read the note in Barton's file about the strange eye condition, but he hadn't expected it to be of any importance. He made a mental note to read more about it once he had a chance.

Bruce pulled out a small blood test meter, taking a quick sample. "We're just gonna take a quick sample to try to figure out what was in it, Clint. There we go…Cap, we're going to need a sample from Thor too, since he drank the same substance. I don't think it's going to do more to an Asgardian than give him a case of heartburn, but you can't be too careful. I'm curious about how the tests would compare."

"Shouldn't we take him to a doctor?" the super-soldier asked, wincing as the archer groaned. "That sounds really bad."

"Take this," Natasha ordered as she nudged the empty trash can over to her partner. "We're taking you to Medical, and I don't want your mystery vomit on my upholstery."

"I've had worse," Clint mumbled, clutching the bin to his chest. He pulled the bag out, holding on for dear life. "I think."

Natasha motioned Steve inside the room as she finished up her conversation on the phone. "Cap, we'll need you to carry him. Dr. Osterhouse wants him to come in."

"I can freakin' walk!"

"Shut up and hold your doggie bag," she snapped, pulling a bottle of pills down from the medicine cabinet. "And take these. The doc says it should help with the nausea until he can get a chance to examine you."

"Horse pills…"

"You wouldn't have to take them if you didn't drink things you're not supposed to."

"But it was in the fridge! No name, fair game!" the archer whined pitifully. "It was _egg nog_!"

"Pink, Clint. You should have asked Jarvis, like you're _supposed_ to!"

"Jarvis was off duty, damn it! Even computer programs need a night off sometimes. Urk –"

Natasha sighed. "Cap, help me get him up please?"

"You got it." He ducked down, pulling Clint's arm up over his shoulder. "Up we go."

"I'm not goin' alone," the archer whined. "Thor's going with me! You said he drank it, so he gets to get poked and prodded too! It's only fair."

"You know, it might not be a bad idea," the redhead agreed, looking at Bruce. "Better safe than sorry?"

The physicist sighed in resignation. "Yeah…but one of _you_ two get to be the one to hold his hand and offer him the lollipop."

* * *

_SHIELD Medical, later that day…_

"Food poisoning?" Natasha asked, blinking in surprise.

Her partner's symptoms had subsided slightly, long enough to wrestle him into the car and travel to Medical. He had been surprisingly cooperative; Thor, on the other hand, had proven to be more difficult, glaring at the medic who had come to take the blood sample and eyeing the personnel in scrubs nervously. Thankfully, Steve had joined them at Medical, and had been able to keep him calm.

"Yes, good old food poisoning," Dr. Osterhouse clarified. "Salmonella, to be exact. We're still waiting on the full results from the toxicology screen, since there were several unknown substances involved. I'd like to keep you here for observation until we can identify everything."

Clint's head fell back against the pillow of the hospital bed as another cramp hit. They had given him some medication previously to take the edge off, but it wasn't enough to make it completely vanish. He scowled at Thor, who showed no sign of discomfort other than the occasional twitch or belch.

"Isn't that a bit extreme for food poisoning?" Steve asked, arching an eyebrow. "Doesn't it usually clear up over time?"

"It does, but considering he drank the equivalent of R and D's latest 'mystery goo,'" the doctor replied, giving Clint a pointed look, "I'd rather not take chances. I might be talked into releasing him tomorrow if he promises to take it easy, but he's not going anywhere today, and I'm standing firm on that."

"Promise, Doc." The archer raised a hand and gave him a Boy Scout salute. "Scout's honor."

The physician arched an eyebrow. "You were never a boy scout, Agent Barton."

"Close enough! I can use a bow, light fires, tie knots and everything."

Dr. Osterhouse shook his head. He beckoned Natasha and Thor outside. "A word, Agent Romanoff?"

She nodded, signaling for Thor and Steve to follow. They joined the doctor outside of the room, where he finished making notations on Clint's file. He looked at them with a serious expression.

"You will release him on the morrow, correct?" Thor asked with concern. "He has given his word that he will behave."

"I'm sure he will," the doctor replied with a chuckle. "If it gets him out of here faster, he'll follow instructions and won't give the nurses too much trouble. He tends to be a bit cranky when he's around Medical – I try not to keep him here any longer than needed, since too much distress can be damaging to a patient's recovery. I trust you all can keep him in line."

They nodded in agreement. Natasha crossed her arms over her chest. "Did you have another concern, Doctor?"

He nodded, grimacing as he pulled up another file. "I'm filing a request for limited duty after three to five days of bed rest, based on how fast the symptoms clear. I believe it'll be received better if you break the bad news. I'd rather keep my spleen intact."

She smirked. "You know he wouldn't do that. He's not that stupid – you're one of the only ones he can stand here."

"I'm _charmed_," the doctor drawled. "You won't be so sure once I add the range restriction."

Natasha frowned. "Range restriction?"

"Yes – range restriction. Frankly, Agent Barton needs to rest, and he's not going to do so willingly. I would suggest his range access at the Tower be limited as well. He's showing signs of strain in his drawing arm, and he's going to tear his rotator cuff again if he's not careful. "

"I'll talk to him about it, Doctor. But," she gave him a tense look. "I think you know how this time of year affects him."

"Barton's overworking himself again. Yes, I noticed," the doctor commented with a sigh. "I've warned him for the last three years- he can't keep doing this to himself, especially now that he's assigned to a response team. The man's over forty now – he's not getting any younger."

Steve frowned. "He hasn't mentioned any problems."

"It's Barton," the doctor scoffed. "Of course he wouldn't mention it. That's why I had them run a full tissue scan along with the tox screen. I'm fairly sure his knees are aching due to the weather change, along with the inflamed brachial plexus nerve he didn't report either."

"He did say something about a sore shoulder last week," Natasha mentioned. "He seemed fine a few days later."

"It's not an uncommon injury for archers, so he's most likely used to treating it at home," Dr. Osterhouse replied with a shrug. "The man's pain threshold is incredible, but then again, Special Forces training often teaches soldiers to ignore pain and keep moving on."

"Ignoring pain is natural for any true warrior." Thor gave Natasha a confused look. "I do not understand how one can get younger. Is this another of your colloquialisms?"

"Yes, it means that you can't turn the clock back on your body," she replied dryly. "Human – or, Midgardians – don't live as long as your people, Thor. Forty is considered middle age, and for those in the harder, tougher roles in field operations like Clint, it's considered almost ancient."

"I understand." The prince turned back to the doctor. "What must be done, Healer?"

The doctor gave an amused snort at the title. "He needs to stop pushing himself so hard. All of you have your Asgardian abilities, super serums or youth behind you – Hawkeye doesn't. He's training constantly when he's not on missions, and for a younger man, that might be fine. But for a middle-aged field operative who already keeps himself at peak performance, he's treading a dangerous line."

Thor nodded, his face taking on a contemplative expression. He was likely thinking of his father, or any number of "old soldiers" from his homeland. Even Asgardians eventually aged and passed on, though it took millennia in their case.

Natasha smiled inwardly. Maybe with Thor's help, she might be able to enforce some limits when Clint decided to overdo it this year. He had thrown himself into his work every year around Christmas since Laura and the kids were murdered; her partner had already had a poor opinion of the holiday due to his history, but losing the one thing that made it enjoyable for him – aside from egg nog, apparently – had made it truly unbearable. Even the most festive agents learned to stay out of his way for the last three months of the year.

Hopefully the reunion with his in-laws would help. The one flaw in Pepper's plan was that she hadn't mentioned Clint's disappearance on Thanksgiving, or whether or not she planned to account for the likely repeat for Christmas. She would have to have Pepper discuss it with him later; while she was aware that Clint was trying to reconnect with his family, Natasha knew that Pepper had her heart set on a team gathering of some sort.

"We shall have words with our shield-brother," the Asgardian said solemnly.

Natasha nodded in agreement.

"Thank you for telling us, Doc," Steve added.

Dr. Osterhouse smiled amiably. "No trouble at all, young man."

As the doctor left, the remaining Avengers looked at each other.

"Well, that answers our question about Christmas," Steve said with a sigh.

Natasha tilted her head slightly. "What question?"

"We were wondering about whether or not Clint would be up for the Christmas thing that Pepper was planning," the super-soldier replied regretfully. "From the sound of it, he's not really into the holidays. Or am I wrong?"

She shook her head. "He has trouble with Christmas. Too many bad childhood memories."

"How can one not enjoy a holiday? Particularly one as celebrated as this one," Thor asked, looking at her incredulously. "They are meant for celebration and sharing with those close to you."

"That's the problem," Natasha replied. "He wasn't given much reason to celebrate when he was younger, so he grew up hating it. There's only so much of Rudolph and Frosty the Snowman that people can stand. The holiday time is full of Christmas songs, decorations, and the like – it's truly everywhere. Some of it is fairly cheesy, garish, and overdone."

"Is that not the point?"

Steve winced, turning to the prince. "Ever hear the old saying about having too much of a good thing?"

Thor nodded slowly in realization. "Ah."

* * *

_Manhattan, a week later…_

Pepper smiled as she entered the kitchen, still dressed in the business suit she had worn on the flight back from London. It was always good to come home to a quiet household after a long trip, in her opinion; the only problem was trying to recover from jet lag. She turned to find Clint sitting at the counter, staring forlornly at a glass of what looked like egg nog.

"Good morning, I guess!" she told him cheerfully. "Late night?"

He nodded. "You just get in?"

"I came straight from LaGuardia," Pepper informed him, knowing he would ask. "Woody dropped me off."

"Good."

She smiled. After he had finalized the paperwork to sign on as a consultant for Stark Industries, he had run a background check on the employees, particularly those who had close contact with herself, Tony, or any of the other senior executives. Woody was Tony's long-time pilot, who had passed Clint's scrutiny with flying colors.

"I've got some resumes that were sent while I was in London," Pepper continued. "Henry approved the top twenty with a list of five favorites, but I wanted your opinion on them before he starts sending out offer letters. We have several high-security positions opening, so I'd rather make sure we don't miss anything."

He took the tablet she had pulled out of her purse, opening the file and browsing the documents. A short list was highlighted at the top. "Happy's still taking those security courses, right?"

She nodded. "He's pretty excited about it. Henry is retiring within a year or two, and Tony was looking at giving Happy a chance at the job – for this building, at least. Henry's letting him shadow when he's not going anywhere with Tony."

"Running building security and personal security can be _very_ different," the archer muttered. He tapped several times on the screen. "Number five – take him off your list."

She looked at him curiously. "May I ask why? He seemed very qualified – Jarvis played the interview recording, and I think he'd be a good fit."

"His background check has a high debt to income ratio," Clint explained. "The DOD looks for the same thing. No matter how qualified the guy is, having money problems can make you susceptible to bribery or coercion. It's too much of a risk. If you _really_ want to hire the guy, put him in a low-or-no security area, refer him to a financial planner, and let him work his way up when he's in a better position."

"I'll let Henry know," she replied. "I'm surprised he didn't pick up on it."

"He might know the guy," the archer explained with a shrug. "Nepotism can blind some people. The thing to keep in mind is that you guys do enough government contracting that your staff needs to be able to pass the same clearance checks the government does."

She rubbed an eyebrow. "And of course I should know that. It could cause staffing issues – we can't provide enough cleared personnel, we don't get the contract."

He nodded in agreement

"Is everything alright, Clint?" she asked, pulling down a glass to get a drink for herself.

Clint didn't move, instead letting out a tired breath. "I can't bring myself to drink it."

She gave him a look of sympathy, moving to the chair next to him and taking a seat. "Because of the food poisoning?"

He nodded slowly. "The one thing I actually _like_ about this time of year, and I can't even enjoy that."

Pepper watched as he slowly traced the rim of the glass with a finger. The expression in his eyes, however, told her that the sadness wasn't due to egg nog. "I take it you couldn't sleep?"

"Bad dreams," he murmured. "Memories, mostly."

"Is this about Laura and the kids?" she asked quietly. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Clint shrugged. "She…asked me to take a desk job, you know? Deputy Director Franklin was bugging me right after I got my degree – he said he wanted someone in the labs with field experience to help the other R and D guys understand what the agents went through. Laura…she said I should think about taking the transfer."

"But you wanted to stay out in the field," Pepper added, her voice full of understanding.

Clint looked up at her, nodding. "I thought…I just thought, that maybe I could do more good out there than stuck in a lab. I mean, I'm not like Tony and Bruce – I can talk about tech stuff, but I can't _live_ it, you know? I'd probably spend a week in a lab before I went nuts."

The redhead nodded. "That's a good way to describe the guys."

"We had a fight about it – I told her I would think about it again." He shifted in his seat slightly, his voice hesitating. "Next thing I knew, Laura and the kids…they were gone. The one thing that mattered to me, more than anything...just…"

Pepper put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Is that what upsets you about Christmas?"

He shrugged. "Maybe, but I never really liked it even before I met Laura and her family. My old man…he used to get into the holiday spirit a little too much. We didn't have much money, and what we had, he spent on booze or paying off anyone who'd report us to the authorities. Any time he had to shell out because he screwed something up, he took out on us."

"I'm so sorry," she said, her eyes tearing up slightly. "I can't imagine growing up like that."

"My ma…she used to make us things, if she could, but she didn't have much," Clint continued. "Barney and I – my brother, that is – we'd go to school and hear about the awesome stuff that Billy or Sherry got from Santa, or whoever the other kids were. We didn't even know there was supposed to _be_ a Santa, not after Dad went on a drunken rant about Santa being a bunch of stupid bullshit. Besides – Santa only brought stuff for the _good_ kids."

"I'm sure you were a good kid, Clint. He didn't know what he was talking about."

"Good kid. Right," he snorted. "You know what I told the cops when I was eight, and they had just told us that our parents were dead?"

Pepper shook her head slightly. She knew his parents had been killed when his father had driven drunk one too many times. It had led to a life of more hardships for the Barton boys.

Clint looked at her intensely. "I told them, 'Good.' What kind of _good_ kid says that about their mom and dad?"

She sighed sadly as he got up from his seat and left. There was going to be a lot of work to do.

* * *

_Christmas Eve, Stark Tower…_

A shrill voice cried out in joy as a small figure darted across the television screen. Nicole laughed in joy as she picked up a brightly wrapped present, while her brothers joined her gleefully. The camera shook slightly; Laura had laughed so hard, she had been unable to hold it steady.

"_Look, Daddy! Santa came – he ate alla da cookies!"_ Lewis announced on the screen, holding up a cookie with a large bite taken out of it. _"He got da milk too…"_

"_Hey Mom, I got a chemistry set!"_

"_No, honey – open it from this side." _Clint watched himself holding a package up, assisting his daughter with opening the package as she wobbled precariously. She had barely learned to walk when they recorded the video. _"There you go."_

"_Daddy, Santa brought me a Lego set! Cool!"_

"_Clint, honey – hold the camera. I want a shot of the kids holding up their presents."_

"_Daddy, watch me!"_

"_Clint…"_

"_Mommy! I got a GI Joe!"_

"_Look what Grandma gave me…"_

He continued to watch the video, as he had every year since he had lost them. A tear gathered at the corner of his eye as he sat on the couch, Arrow curled up beside him. A flame flickered to the side from the gas fireplace to one side of the room – the only light in the room aside from the television.

Arrow let out a low growl, his head perking up. Clint looked over to find a bottle being held over the back of the couch. Amber liquid sloshed inside.

He took the bottle wordlessly, holding it as Nick shooed the dog off of the couch. The spymaster sat with him, sighing as he held up a pair of tumblers from Clint's kitchen. The archer poured a small amount into each one.

They watched in silence for a while. Clint had never been much of a drinker, but Christmas Eve was one of the only times he made an exception. He preferred the dullness that the bourbon brought, although the smell tended to bring back unpleasant memories from his childhood.

When Nick had found him during that first Christmas Eve after Laura and the kids were murdered, he had spent the entire night sitting next to him, making sure he didn't get drunk enough to try something stupid. After that, he had joined Clint each year. He had promised that if Clint was going to get himself sloshed, he wouldn't have to do it alone.

Watching the videos, getting drunk, and wallowing in his own misery was cliché, of course, but he couldn't help but think he deserved the pain.

"They wouldn't want you to punish yourself like this," Nick finally said, putting the empty bottle down on the coffee table. "I think there's another place you should be."

Clint shrugged, feeling slightly rubbery. He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, there is."

* * *

_Brooklyn, the next morning…_

"Mom! Dad!"

Phil Roussakoff woke suddenly, a small hand shaking him on the arm. "Uh – wha…"

"There's someone on the couch!" Sean's voice whispered nervously.

The detective was instantly alert, sitting up and patting his oldest son's shoulder. "Go check on the little ones."

Sean nodded as Phil reached for his sidearm. Whispering quietly to Kathleen, he stood and cautiously made his way out of the master bedroom. He held his gun ready as he made his way down the hall.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he looked around the corner, spotting the figure lying on the couch. He let out a relieved sigh as he spotted the large German Shepherd dozing nearby. The dog looked up, his tail wagging.

"You gotta be kidding me," Phil grumbled, thumbing the safety back on. He returned to the bedroom, locking the pistol away before heading back to the living room. "Clint? What are you doing on my couch?"

"Uh…I _was_ sleeping."

"Uncle Clint!" Several voices called as the kids darted by, hearing their uncle's voice. Phil shook his head with a chuckle.

"Hey, kids – ow, my _head!_" Clint winced, wobbling slightly as he stood up. "Hope you don't mind that I, uh, borrowed your couch. Kinda thought I'd surprise you guys. Sort of."

"Anytime," Phil told him, pulling him into a hug. "Anytime."

* * *

_Stark Tower, later that day…_

"I'm telling you, the stuffing goes_ in_ the turkey, not under it – hey, Thor! Put it down," Steve ordered, trying to wrangle the mess that was now the kitchen. "Bruce, are you sure you want to go with the curry? I don't think that's supposed to be at a Christmas dinner."

"Depends on what part of the world you're from, Cap," Bruce replied with a chuckle. "I happen to like curry."

"Look out!" another panicked voice cried as a knife flew across the room. "Natasha – put the can down."

"Doesn't cranberry sauce go into the stuffing?" Natasha asked, giving them an arched eyebrow.

"With the stuffing, not _in_ the stuffing," Steve replied, slightly exasperated. An alarm began to sound in the kitchen. "Oh, no – the _bread_."

"Can we not stop this infernal noise?" Thor bellowed, hands covering his ears. "It pains my ears!"

Pepper ran a hand over her face as she watched the fiasco that was Christmas dinner. She had hoped for a nice, quiet meal, catered by some of the finest chefs who hadn't taken the day off, as well as a calm, simple gift exchange. Steve and the others, however, had decided to change things up a little by insisting on cooking themselves.

The elevator _pinged, _opening its doors to allow Agent Phil Coulson to enter the floor. She smiled, waving him over. He joined her, dressed in simple jeans and a polo shirt, a leather jacket hanging over his arm.

Pepper looked him up and down. "That's a good look for you, Phil."

"Well," he replied, returning her grin as he ducked a flying pot lid. "You _did_ say this was an informal get-together."

"Who are you and what have you done with Agent?" Tony asked, holding out a glass for the agent to take.

Phil shook his head, as he chuckled. He took the offered glass. "Not joining in the festivities?"

"I know better than to get involved in that mess," Tony scoffed. "Besides, I can barely make an omelet. How about you?"

"I've been told I can burn water. Besides," Phil said, motioning with his glass towards the bickering superheroes, "I think getting into the middle of all that would be hazardous to my health. What in the world is going _on_ in there?"

"Well, Captain Spangles there decided he wanted to have a family-style Christmas dinner, homemade, and with all the bells and whistles. Turkey, fruitcake, mashed potatoes, the works," the billionaire explained with an amused look. "Naturally, everyone else decided they wanted to add in something they thought _totally_ belonged at a Christmas meal. Steve's going traditional, Bruce is going Indian or Mediterranean or something, and I _still_ can't pronounce whatever it was that Thor's supposed to be making."

Pepper cringed as a sulfuric odor wafted in from the kitchen. "Natasha…she's just running around tinkering with everyone else's dishes."

"Ah," Phil replied, his eyes widening slightly. "Experimentation. You probably shouldn't let her do that."

"Don't worry," the CEO replied, looking down at her phone. "I already called in backup."

As she spoke, the elevator _pinged_ again, revealing another man – Clint. The archer walked in, Arrow at his heels. The dog sniffed the air, yelped, and darted for a corner of the room, cowering. Looking over at the cacophony of arguing superheroes, Clint put two fingers to his lips and let out a shrill, loud whistle.

The kitchen occupants froze, utensils still held in their hands.

"What the hell are you doing to my kitchen?" Clint's voice rang out, causing their heads to turn towards him. "Thor – put the tenderizer down. Bruce? Your curry's on fire – Natasha, _out_. Steve, why are you putting that there? Tony? I need a hand…"

There was an unspoken understanding amongst the Tower residents that certain areas "belonged" to each of the Avengers. The labs and research areas were Tony's and Bruce's, the weight gym and indoor track belonged to Steve, the lounge was Thor's and Pepper's, and the acrobatics gym – and sometimes dance studio - belonged to Natasha.

The kitchen, however, belonged to Clint. As he was the one who used it the most, the archer kept it impeccably neat, shiny, and orderly. The others had discovered that failure to do the same meant that he would quietly return to his own kitchen, taking his cooking gear with him and leaving them to the mercy of Tony's questionable gadgets.

Natasha had warned them the first time, and watched in amusement as they had fumbled around with the designer gear. It was surprising how much one could learn to improvise while on the run from the authorities or camped out on a battleground. They had gotten spoiled by Clint's kitchen equipment, it turned out, and learned that his idea of clean and tidy and theirs could be _very_ different.

The archer continued issuing orders to his teammates with a firm tone. Shortly, the kitchen was back in full swing, their processes now more organized. The sulfuric smell began to dissipate, giving way to a heartier, rich smell of baking ham and turkey.

"Where did he learn to do that?" Pepper asked incredulously. "I know he can cook, but to run a kitchen?"

"You know about Laura?" Phil asked, smiling gently at her nod. "When she became pregnant the first time, she had a lot of trouble with morning sickness. A lot of smells made her sick, especially when cooking, so he hired a chef to teach him for a week so that she didn't have to. Afterwards, they just sort of kept it up as a hobby."

"Chef Antonio," Natasha continued. "I met him once, when Clint and Laura took me out for my first anniversary of joining SHIELD. Antonio ruled his kitchen with an iron fist. I think Clint sort of channels him when he needs to, in cases like this."

"That's crazy – he learned in a week?" Pepper turned back to watch Clint show Tony how to stuff herbs under the turkey skin. "He doesn't cook like an amateur. I thought he had been trained for an undercover mission or something."

Phil shrugged. "It was more of an informal crash course. Clint said that that old man taught him more in the one week he took lessons than he learned anywhere else. He and Laura had teammates and family over for dinner a lot – they always said practice makes perfect."

Natasha joined them, picking up Tony's glass of wine and smelling the contents. "It's true. They loved to cook together. You should see his house sometime. Gourmet kitchen, custom cabinets and pantry, herb garden - the works."

"But he was living in that little apartment," Pepper commented sourly. Her eyes widened. "_Oh_. I suppose he wouldn't want to stay there at the house, after all that happened. Is that where he went last night?"

Phil shook his head. "Don't worry – he wasn't alone."

"That's a relief!" She looked over at the large, tinsel-covered Christmas tree. They had had a slight battle over it, as some members of the group were more enthusiastic about the holiday than others. "Are those from Clint?"

The SHIELD agents peered over at a small pile of unlabeled boxes that had joined the other brightly-wrapped packages. Natasha shrugged. "Probably. I'll warn you, though – his presents are a little…strange."

Pepper gave her a curious look. "In what way?"

"He won't give you something you want – he'll give you something he thinks you need." Natasha made a sour face. "There's a reason his wife did the Christmas shopping."

"Oh, it can't be that bad," the CEO replied with a laugh, which was shortly cut off by Phil's cringe.

"We tried a Secret Santa exchange at work," the field officer recounted with a shudder. "The person whose name Clint drew had a _major_ problem with athlete's foot. He got the guy a foot care kit with an anti-fungal treatment and Odor-Eaters. We all knew Clint meant well, but it's not exactly what you would expect to open on Christmas."

Pepper gave him a chagrined look. "Well…I'm sure it'll go…fine."

Shortly afterwards, the kitchen crew ambled out of the kitchen, allowing their various dishes to finish baking or simmering. They gathered around the living room area, passing out the presents. Soon, the area was littered with wrapping paper and bows, each person smiling at their growing piles of gifts.

Clint hesitantly passed his out to each person, grinning sheepishly and running for the kitchen. He began checking each dish, stirring or basting in an effort to escape his friends' reactions. Arrow began hopping through the piles of paper, chewing on the remnants and yipping excitedly.

Natasha looked down at her box, smiling at the new capsules for her Widow's Bites. He had adapted some of his trick arrows to cartridges so that they could be added to her own arsenal, probably with Tony's help. She had mentioned her admiration for some of them, such as the acid and sonic arrows; it never hurt to have too many tricks up your sleeve.

Bruce was holding up a black jiu-jitsu _gi, _neatly folded above a set of pants. The others wondered at the choice of gift, thinking it a joke or prank, but the physicist held a look of surprise. She knew he was most likely able to figure out what the meaning behind it was – that it was most likely not just a workout uniform, but a sign of trust. Clint knew that Bruce's training in Brazil had helped him practice his self-control, and had thought the physicist should keep pursuing it.

Phil held up a fountain pen; its barrel was enameled and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The writing implement looked to be an antique, although a well-kept one. Coulson was known for his love of vintage collectibles, and Natasha knew he had wanted one of those fountain pens for years.

"What are these papers?" Thor asked in confusion, holding up a wallet and several documents. "This is not my name. I am Thor, Son of Odin, not this…Donald Blake."

Coulson let out a rare laugh. He held out a hand, taking the wallet and examining it. "It's much better than your last one."

"I do not understand."

Steve held up a similar set of documents. "Don't worry, Thor – I've got a set too. Uh, Natasha?"

"Congratulations, gentlemen," she replied with a sly smile. "You've got your first set of cover identity paperwork. You can use it when you don't want to be Thor or Captain America, but just the guys that look like them."

Realization sparked in their eyes. Steve grinned. "I had been thinking about going into art school, maybe, but I had some trouble with the paperwork. That, and it was pointed out that I might have a problem being able to focus if I was bothered by a bunch of, uh, fans. Maybe I can use this to stay kind of anonymous."

"I do not relish the idea of such deception," Thor admitted, giving them a sheepish look. "But, I shall admit this might have saved me much trouble in New Mexico."

"I think that was the point," Coulson replied with a chuckle. "We knew the ID was a fake, to be honest – it was done by an amateur. I wanted to see what you would do, and…the rest is history. Clint has a lot of discreet contacts, and it looks like he used one of them to acquire cover identities for you both. These should hold up under just about any scrutiny."

Pepper held up a small item, examining it as well. "This is lovely!"

The item was a watch. Its face was framed with a silver metal, possibly steel or titanium, each gear finely detailed. The band was made from fine leather; it was practical, yet refined and elegant. Natasha would know – she had picked out the watch herself.

"Allow me," Natasha told her, taking the item to demonstrate the features. She turned it on to its side, showing her the buttons. "This button fires a small but powerful dose of pepper spray. I think he called in a favor from R and D for one of their newer blends. The next button will display a light when you press it once, but press it three times quickly, and it will activate a distress beacon tied to Jarvis. Tony set that part up."

"It's beautiful," Pepper said admiringly. "I love this brand, too – thank you, Clint!"

Clint nodded in acknowledgement, wiping his hands on a towel as they turned to look at Tony. The inventor was staring at a document, uncharacteristically silent. Another stack of folded papers lay in the box on his lap. He stood, walking over to the counter and looked up at Clint.

"Tony?" Steve asked quietly. "Are you alright?"

Pepper moved to his side, looking over his shoulder at the paper. "It's a letter."

Tony picked up the letters, scanning through two more. "It's…all here. They're, um…letters. From my dad. They're uh…letters. My first science fair. My first invention…graduation. It's all here. Where did you get these?"

"Storage. They had more than just the trunks that Nick gave you, but a lot of it is still tied up in projects that he started while he was still with SHIELD," Clint explained with a shrug. "Since these didn't really have anything to do with any of those, I sort of…_liberated_ them."

"All of this time, I thought he didn't even see me. Everything I did, when I was a kid – all I wanted was for him to notice." Tony glanced back down at the letters. "I guess he did after all."

"I admit I read some of them," the archer replied, giving Tony a serious look. "And I talked to Nick after I found the letters during a security inspection, since he knew the guy. I wasn't sure you'd want them since he sounded like he wasn't that good of a father. He made a lot of mistakes, but he loved you. He just didn't know how to say it, I guess. It looks like he tried to send them, but just…"

"Didn't. They all say kind of the same things – that he's _proud_ of me, and stuff like that," the inventor finished, his eyes still full of surprise. He looked at Clint, his voice rough. "Thank you. I, uh…_needed_ this. Thank you."

"Yeah – no problem." The archer gave him a shy smile as a timer beeped. He beckoned to the others. "Soup's on, everyone!"

There were several cheers as they filed into the kitchen, pulling dishes out to set the table. The turkey was pulled from the oven and carried to the large island for carving. The ham was placed next to it, still sizzling. Several more items were placed at the center of the table for all to reach.

Natasha sidled up to Clint, gently nudging him in the side as he sharpened the carving knife. She gave him a gentle smile. "I guess there's something to this Christmas thing after all. I could get used to this again."

She hadn't had much use for the holiday, having had no reason to until she had left the Red Room, but that hadn't stopped Clint from dragging her to the Barton home each year to spend it with his family. He hadn't wanted her to spend it alone.

"Maybe," Clint replied with a shrug. He grinned, spinning the blade with a practiced flourish. "Besides – I get to play with knives!"


End file.
